tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-39816590120703334722018-02-09T06:00:45.677-08:00......Piccalilli PieChristina Wilsdonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02472802098557216513noreply@blogger.comBlogger259125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3981659012070333472.post-57777543130218394082017-07-04T21:44:00.001-07:002017-07-05T08:15:44.494-07:00How Do You Start Drawing Again?<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://4.bp.blogspot.com/-UNTKfJYhsqk/WVxo8LPXzzI/AAAAAAAAK4Y/ci9xht-acxcS9iZG3HQHwNszQ4n-dux4wCLcBGAs/s1600/kid%2Bdrawing%2Bwall.png" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="321" data-original-width="345" height="185" src="https://4.bp.blogspot.com/-UNTKfJYhsqk/WVxo8LPXzzI/AAAAAAAAK4Y/ci9xht-acxcS9iZG3HQHwNszQ4n-dux4wCLcBGAs/s200/kid%2Bdrawing%2Bwall.png" width="200" /></a></div><div style="background-color: white; border: 0px; box-sizing: border-box; float: none; font-stretch: inherit; font-variant-numeric: inherit; line-height: 1.70588; margin-bottom: 1.17647em; max-width: 680px; padding: 0px 15px; position: static; vertical-align: baseline; width: auto;"><span style="color: #333333; font-family: &quot;arial&quot; , &quot;helvetica&quot; , sans-serif;">In a small child's life, soon after bawling, squalling, and crawling are established, along comes scrawling. (Which often includes some crayon-eating and paint-sipping.)</span></div><div style="background-color: white; border: 0px; box-sizing: border-box; float: none; font-stretch: inherit; font-variant-numeric: inherit; line-height: 1.70588; margin-bottom: 1.17647em; max-width: 680px; padding: 0px 15px; position: static; vertical-align: baseline; width: auto;"><span style="color: #333333; font-family: &quot;arial&quot; , &quot;helvetica&quot; , sans-serif;">Colors zigzag across paper and books and possibly walls up to a 3-foot height. If you're lucky and careful, those little hands never grab hold of a permanent-ink Sharpie.</span></div><div style="background-color: white; border: 0px; box-sizing: border-box; float: none; font-stretch: inherit; font-variant-numeric: inherit; line-height: 1.70588; margin-bottom: 1.17647em; max-width: 680px; padding: 0px 15px; position: static; vertical-align: baseline; width: auto;"><span style="color: #333333; font-family: &quot;arial&quot; , &quot;helvetica&quot; , sans-serif;">Then the child's drawings start resembling things. She churns out self-portraits, parents, siblings, houses, trees, the sun, and pets.&nbsp;</span></div><div style="background-color: white; border: 0px; box-sizing: border-box; float: none; font-stretch: inherit; font-variant-numeric: inherit; line-height: 1.70588; margin-bottom: 1.17647em; max-width: 680px; padding: 0px 15px; position: static; vertical-align: baseline; width: auto;"><span style="color: #333333; font-family: &quot;arial&quot; , &quot;helvetica&quot; , sans-serif;">After that, most kids go on to fill reams of paper for the next few years, scrubbing their way through multiple 64-crayon boxes.&nbsp;</span></div><table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; margin-left: 1em; text-align: right;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://2.bp.blogspot.com/-DhUKeQpOlg0/WVxpIKeNifI/AAAAAAAAK4c/l3bo4zF0KF8RBWwVaeJvfQNivlWMrUiZwCKgBGAs/s1600/20170704_204829.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="900" data-original-width="1600" height="360" src="https://2.bp.blogspot.com/-DhUKeQpOlg0/WVxpIKeNifI/AAAAAAAAK4c/l3bo4zF0KF8RBWwVaeJvfQNivlWMrUiZwCKgBGAs/s640/20170704_204829.jpg" width="640" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i>Sophie, age 5, with one of her many horse pictures.</i></td></tr></tbody></table><div style="background-color: white; border: 0px; box-sizing: border-box; float: none; font-stretch: inherit; font-variant-numeric: inherit; line-height: 1.70588; margin-bottom: 1.17647em; max-width: 680px; padding: 0px 15px; position: static; vertical-align: baseline; width: auto;"><br /></div><div style="background-color: white; border: 0px; box-sizing: border-box; float: none; font-stretch: inherit; font-variant-numeric: inherit; line-height: 1.70588; margin-bottom: 1.17647em; max-width: 680px; padding: 0px 15px; position: static; vertical-align: baseline; width: auto;"><span style="color: #333333; font-family: &quot;arial&quot; , &quot;helvetica&quot; , sans-serif;">But at some point, a lot of these furiously drawing kids just...stop. They put down their crayons and Magic Markers (and this was true long before laptops, cell phones, and tablets). They may pick them up again, but often only to do homework and other assigned tasks.</span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-273eUkY1kjQ/WVxpcUTQXsI/AAAAAAAAK4g/i18zK0R3T9w-718sCwl-Tu2yeJ0ske-lgCLcBGAs/s1600/crayola.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="500" data-original-width="500" height="320" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-273eUkY1kjQ/WVxpcUTQXsI/AAAAAAAAK4g/i18zK0R3T9w-718sCwl-Tu2yeJ0ske-lgCLcBGAs/s320/crayola.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><div style="background-color: white; border: 0px; box-sizing: border-box; float: none; font-stretch: inherit; font-variant-numeric: inherit; line-height: 1.70588; margin-bottom: 1.17647em; max-width: 680px; padding: 0px 15px; position: static; vertical-align: baseline; width: auto;"><span style="color: #333333; font-family: &quot;arial&quot; , &quot;helvetica&quot; , sans-serif;">Anecdotally, it's said that if you ask kindergartners "how many of you can draw?" all the kids raise their hands. Ask a few years later, and very few will tentatively admit that they can...a bit.</span></div><div style="background-color: white; border: 0px; box-sizing: border-box; float: none; font-stretch: inherit; font-variant-numeric: inherit; line-height: 1.70588; margin-bottom: 1.17647em; max-width: 680px; padding: 0px 15px; position: static; vertical-align: baseline; width: auto;"><span style="color: #333333; font-family: &quot;arial&quot; , &quot;helvetica&quot; , sans-serif;">I suppose this decline is due to growing self-consciousness; kids are forever policing one another's behavior as well as watching for any sign that a peer thinks he or she is "better" than everybody else.&nbsp;</span></div><div style="background-color: white; border: 0px; box-sizing: border-box; float: none; font-stretch: inherit; font-variant-numeric: inherit; line-height: 1.70588; margin-bottom: 1.17647em; max-width: 680px; padding: 0px 15px; position: static; vertical-align: baseline; width: auto;"><span style="color: #333333; font-family: &quot;arial&quot; , &quot;helvetica&quot; , sans-serif;">So I was no different from most other kids when I was little in that I loved to draw, and though by mid-elementary years I wouldn't dare raise my hand for fear of being mocked, I still drew--a lot. I drew just because I liked to, but also discovered that drawing provided an enchanted shield that fended off bullying and teasing. &nbsp;Kids might pick on you or shun you, but when they saw you could draw a little, they'd be a little nicer to you...for a while, anyway.</span></div><table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-LfovcmdV_dM/WVxqa7gXmjI/AAAAAAAAK4s/GrZs8_mL2a43gG4XTQry_ukC0KJmAMYaQCLcBGAs/s1600/early%2Bdrawing.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="320" data-original-width="180" height="400" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-LfovcmdV_dM/WVxqa7gXmjI/AAAAAAAAK4s/GrZs8_mL2a43gG4XTQry_ukC0KJmAMYaQCLcBGAs/s400/early%2Bdrawing.jpg" width="225" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Tiger, lioness, lion by yours truly, age 5<br />or 6. The start of a wildlife encyclopedia<br />I intended to write and illustrate, though<br />I wearied of the task by page 3.<br />The animal kingdom is rather large.</td></tr></tbody></table><div style="background-color: white; border: 0px; box-sizing: border-box; float: none; font-stretch: inherit; font-variant-numeric: inherit; line-height: 1.70588; margin-bottom: 1.17647em; max-width: 680px; padding: 0px 15px; position: static; vertical-align: baseline; width: auto;"><span style="color: #333333; font-family: &quot;arial&quot; , &quot;helvetica&quot; , sans-serif;">Drawing helped me endure the first and only summer day camp I attended when I was about five years old. At that age, I didn't feel particularly bad about myself. I had a few playmates, and I went to a few birthday parties. Life was good.</span></div><div style="background-color: white; border: 0px; box-sizing: border-box; float: none; font-stretch: inherit; font-variant-numeric: inherit; line-height: 1.70588; margin-bottom: 1.17647em; max-width: 680px; padding: 0px 15px; position: static; vertical-align: baseline; width: auto;"><span style="color: #333333; font-family: &quot;arial&quot; , &quot;helvetica&quot; , sans-serif;">But then my parents decided to sign me up for a day camp. No doubt they thought it would be a super treat for me, especially as Mom was busy with my newborn baby brother that summer.&nbsp;</span><br /><span style="color: #333333; font-family: &quot;arial&quot; , &quot;helvetica&quot; , sans-serif;"><br /></span><span style="color: #333333; font-family: &quot;arial&quot; , &quot;helvetica&quot; , sans-serif;">Unfortunately, I started camp a few days after it had officially begun.&nbsp;</span></div><div style="background-color: white; border: 0px; box-sizing: border-box; float: none; font-stretch: inherit; font-variant-numeric: inherit; line-height: 1.70588; margin-bottom: 1.17647em; max-width: 680px; padding: 0px 15px; position: static; vertical-align: baseline; width: auto;"><span style="color: #333333; font-family: &quot;arial&quot; , &quot;helvetica&quot; , sans-serif;">And that was plenty of time for the other little girls to have formed friendships .</span></div><div style="background-color: white; border: 0px; box-sizing: border-box; float: none; font-stretch: inherit; font-variant-numeric: inherit; line-height: 1.70588; margin-bottom: 1.17647em; max-width: 680px; padding: 0px 15px; position: static; vertical-align: baseline; width: auto;"><span style="color: #333333; font-family: &quot;arial&quot; , &quot;helvetica&quot; , sans-serif;">When I appeared on the scene, they all closed ranks--all except one slightly plump girl who was ostracized because she was sturdily built. She and I became friends and stuck together most of the time.&nbsp;</span></div><div style="background-color: white; border: 0px; box-sizing: border-box; float: none; font-stretch: inherit; font-variant-numeric: inherit; line-height: 1.70588; margin-bottom: 1.17647em; max-width: 680px; padding: 0px 15px; position: static; vertical-align: baseline; width: auto;"><span style="color: #333333; font-family: &quot;arial&quot; , &quot;helvetica&quot; , sans-serif;">My popularity wasn't exactly improved by my fear of going underwater during swimming lessons (I prayed for rain every single morning). My outsider status was further cemented when we took a trip to Carvel's Ice Cream Shop and (a) everybody else ordered chocolate and I got vanilla, and (b) I bit off the end of my cone to eat the ice cream from the bottom up, which someone had told me was a cool thing to do, but was actually just a really stupid and messy thing to do.</span></div><div style="background-color: white; border: 0px; box-sizing: border-box; float: none; font-stretch: inherit; font-variant-numeric: inherit; line-height: 1.70588; margin-bottom: 1.17647em; max-width: 680px; padding: 0px 15px; position: static; vertical-align: baseline; width: auto;"><span style="color: #333333; font-family: &quot;arial&quot; , &quot;helvetica&quot; , sans-serif;">Though I don't think these events explain why my only friend turned on me the very last day, singing a taunting anthem along with the other girls and bidding me farewell with the remark, "I hate you. I was only pretending to like you."</span></div><div style="background-color: white; border: 0px; box-sizing: border-box; float: none; font-stretch: inherit; font-variant-numeric: inherit; line-height: 1.70588; margin-bottom: 1.17647em; max-width: 680px; padding: 0px 15px; position: static; vertical-align: baseline; width: auto;"><span style="color: #333333; font-family: &quot;arial&quot; , &quot;helvetica&quot; , sans-serif;">Ouch!</span></div><div style="background-color: white; border: 0px; box-sizing: border-box; float: none; font-stretch: inherit; font-variant-numeric: inherit; line-height: 1.70588; margin-bottom: 1.17647em; max-width: 680px; padding: 0px 15px; position: static; vertical-align: baseline; width: auto;"><span style="color: #333333; font-family: &quot;arial&quot; , &quot;helvetica&quot; , sans-serif;">But there was that day, that one solitary day, when it <i>did </i>rain.&nbsp;</span></div><div style="background-color: white; border: 0px; box-sizing: border-box; float: none; font-stretch: inherit; font-variant-numeric: inherit; line-height: 1.70588; margin-bottom: 1.17647em; max-width: 680px; padding: 0px 15px; position: static; vertical-align: baseline; width: auto;"><span style="color: #333333; font-family: &quot;arial&quot; , &quot;helvetica&quot; , sans-serif;">At first, there was just enough sunshine for us to indulge in some archery (real arrows and big stuffed targets--I'm surprised there weren't eyes being put out right and left). For some weird reason, I was top-notch at archery, landing that sucker smack dab in the middle of the target every time. &nbsp;</span></div><div style="background-color: white; border: 0px; box-sizing: border-box; float: none; font-stretch: inherit; font-variant-numeric: inherit; line-height: 1.70588; margin-bottom: 1.17647em; max-width: 680px; padding: 0px 15px; position: static; vertical-align: baseline; width: auto;"><span style="color: #333333; font-family: &quot;arial&quot; , &quot;helvetica&quot; , sans-serif;">As Pigpen says in <i>A Charlie Brown Christmas</i>, "</span><span style="background-color: transparent;"><span style="color: #333333; font-family: &quot;arial&quot; , &quot;helvetica&quot; , sans-serif;">Sort of makes you want to treat me with more respect, doesn't it?"</span></span></div><div style="background-color: white; border: 0px; box-sizing: border-box; float: none; font-stretch: inherit; font-variant-numeric: inherit; line-height: 1.70588; margin-bottom: 1.17647em; max-width: 680px; padding: 0px 15px; position: static; vertical-align: baseline; width: auto;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://3.bp.blogspot.com/-kBbLwzeDVPs/WVxsBNNe2AI/AAAAAAAAK40/HnlrH9gy8s8GThHWSXEIY-nFdWTmtixaACLcBGAs/s1600/Pigpen.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="255" data-original-width="300" src="https://3.bp.blogspot.com/-kBbLwzeDVPs/WVxsBNNe2AI/AAAAAAAAK40/HnlrH9gy8s8GThHWSXEIY-nFdWTmtixaACLcBGAs/s1600/Pigpen.jpg" /></a></div><span style="background-color: transparent;"><span style="color: #333333; font-family: &quot;arial&quot; , &quot;helvetica&quot; , sans-serif;">It did...for a few minutes. &nbsp;</span></span></div><div style="background-color: white; border: 0px; box-sizing: border-box; float: none; font-stretch: inherit; font-variant-numeric: inherit; line-height: 1.70588; margin-bottom: 1.17647em; max-width: 680px; padding: 0px 15px; position: static; vertical-align: baseline; width: auto;"><span style="background-color: transparent;"><span style="color: #333333; font-family: &quot;arial&quot; , &quot;helvetica&quot; , sans-serif;">Then, blissfully, it began to rain. Buckets. &nbsp;We were hustled indoors. Paper and crayons and pencils were doled out. And we drew. &nbsp;</span></span></div><div style="background-color: white; border: 0px; box-sizing: border-box; float: none; font-stretch: inherit; font-variant-numeric: inherit; line-height: 1.70588; margin-bottom: 1.17647em; max-width: 680px; padding: 0px 15px; position: static; vertical-align: baseline; width: auto;"><span style="background-color: transparent;"><span style="color: #333333; font-family: &quot;arial&quot; , &quot;helvetica&quot; , sans-serif;">Before too long, a girl spotted my paper. "Hey, that's good!" she said loudly. Other kids clustered around. Soon I was drawing cats and dogs for them.</span></span></div><div style="background-color: white; border: 0px; box-sizing: border-box; float: none; font-stretch: inherit; font-variant-numeric: inherit; line-height: 1.70588; margin-bottom: 1.17647em; max-width: 680px; padding: 0px 15px; position: static; vertical-align: baseline; width: auto;"><span style="background-color: transparent;"><span style="color: #333333; font-family: &quot;arial&quot; , &quot;helvetica&quot; , sans-serif;">This won me a whole day or two of respect. But memories are brief at age five, and life reverted to its usual focus of trying to remain invisible. Fortunately, the whole horrible experience of being sent to Kid Siberia for the summer would soon end. &nbsp;My mom recalls that on the last day, I stepped into the house and stated, "The hell with that."</span></span></div><div style="background-color: white; border: 0px; box-sizing: border-box; float: none; font-stretch: inherit; font-variant-numeric: inherit; line-height: 1.70588; margin-bottom: 1.17647em; max-width: 680px; padding: 0px 15px; position: static; vertical-align: baseline; width: auto;"><span style="background-color: transparent;"><span style="color: #333333; font-family: &quot;arial&quot; , &quot;helvetica&quot; , sans-serif;">Throughout the rest of my school years, I continued to draw, putting art teachers through grueling tests of patience in middle school as I created an endless stream of horses. In college, friends found the animals I drew amusing (bless you, A</span></span><span style="background-color: transparent;">Δ</span><span style="background-color: transparent;">Φ</span><span style="background-color: transparent; color: #333333; font-family: &quot;arial&quot; , &quot;helvetica&quot; , sans-serif;">&nbsp;brothers and sisters) with the exception of one (non-</span><span style="background-color: transparent; color: #333333; font-family: &quot;arial&quot; , &quot;helvetica&quot; , sans-serif;">A</span><span style="background-color: transparent;">Δ</span><span style="background-color: transparent;">Φ) <span style="font-family: &quot;arial&quot; , &quot;helvetica&quot; , sans-serif;">male housemate who chastised me for not taking art "seriously" and "wasting" any ability I might have.*</span></span></div><div style="background-color: white; border: 0px; box-sizing: border-box; float: none; font-stretch: inherit; font-variant-numeric: inherit; line-height: 1.70588; margin-bottom: 1.17647em; max-width: 680px; padding: 0px 15px; position: static; vertical-align: baseline; width: auto;"><blockquote class="tr_bq"><span style="font-family: &quot;arial&quot; , &quot;helvetica&quot; , sans-serif; font-size: x-small;"><i>[*Editor's note: I have found some of the "serious" art I produced in art classes. Believe me when I say that no talent was wasted in the production of these works, nor will successive generations be deprived of scintillating artistic scope and vision. Unless you think a badly drawn deer standing on a snowy hill in front of a barn surrounded by a landscape experiencing a completely different season is Art for the Ages.]</i></span></blockquote></div><div style="background-color: white; border: 0px; box-sizing: border-box; float: none; font-stretch: inherit; font-variant-numeric: inherit; line-height: 1.70588; margin-bottom: 1.17647em; max-width: 680px; padding: 0px 15px; position: static; vertical-align: baseline; width: auto;"><span style="font-family: &quot;arial&quot; , &quot;helvetica&quot; , sans-serif;">After college, I noodled about taking a few cartooning classes in New York City after my editorial-assistant job wrapped up at 5 p.m. (Weirdly, the art director made it her business to say sneeringly almost every Wednesday, "Off to your...[pause] <i>cartooooning</i> class now?").&nbsp;</span></div><div style="background-color: white; border: 0px; box-sizing: border-box; float: none; font-stretch: inherit; font-variant-numeric: inherit; line-height: 1.70588; margin-bottom: 1.17647em; max-width: 680px; padding: 0px 15px; position: static; vertical-align: baseline; width: auto;"><span style="font-family: &quot;arial&quot; , &quot;helvetica&quot; , sans-serif;">Gradually, though, pens and pencils were set aside. Paper stayed bound in its notebooks. The birth of my daughter reignited some drawing energy (we spent many happy hours filling yards of paper with horses), but outside of our home, being an adult able to draw a little was Frowned Upon in our co-op preschool.</span></div><div style="background-color: white; border: 0px; box-sizing: border-box; float: none; font-stretch: inherit; font-variant-numeric: inherit; line-height: 1.70588; margin-bottom: 1.17647em; max-width: 680px; padding: 0px 15px; position: static; vertical-align: baseline; width: auto;"><table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://4.bp.blogspot.com/-XoRiEoivHNI/WVxtq_JPKeI/AAAAAAAAK5E/VzSFWWwNrF8fnmOTz97zhfcAzpVnPDi9wCLcBGAs/s1600/giraffe.png" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="591" data-original-width="348" height="400" src="https://4.bp.blogspot.com/-XoRiEoivHNI/WVxtq_JPKeI/AAAAAAAAK5E/VzSFWWwNrF8fnmOTz97zhfcAzpVnPDi9wCLcBGAs/s400/giraffe.png" width="235" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">So scary! (<a href="http://www.clipartpanda.com/clipart_images/add-this-clip-art-to-your-2946200">source</a>)</td></tr></tbody></table><span style="font-family: &quot;arial&quot; , &quot;helvetica&quot; , sans-serif;">It would be Off-Putting, you see, to draw when children were looking on. These fragile souls might be so humbled and threatened by the sight of an adult drawing, they might never, ever pick up a crayon again. (One young mom, whom we dubbed The Young Child-Rearing Expert, made sure to say VERY LOUDLY, while praising another young mom's husband's interactions with the kids and glaring at me, "It's not like he draws a <i>giraffe</i> that the kids see and know they can't replicate. He doesn't <i>intimidate</i> them.")</span></div><div style="background-color: white; border: 0px; box-sizing: border-box; float: none; font-stretch: inherit; font-variant-numeric: inherit; line-height: 1.70588; margin-bottom: 1.17647em; max-width: 680px; padding: 0px 15px; position: static; vertical-align: baseline; width: auto;"><span style="font-family: &quot;arial&quot; , &quot;helvetica&quot; , sans-serif;">Clearly, being able to draw googly-eyed animals doesn't inoculate one from condemnation in adulthood the way it does when you're a kid.</span><br /><span style="font-family: &quot;arial&quot; , &quot;helvetica&quot; , sans-serif;"><br /></span><span style="font-family: &quot;arial&quot; , &quot;helvetica&quot; , sans-serif;">Then, when my daughter was in elementary school and I inadvertently doodled something one day, a friend exclaimed, "I didn't know you could draw!" To my surprise, this jolted me; it felt as if I'd abandoned some key element that had formed me, like growing up in a foreign country and not telling any of my new acquaintances.</span></div><div style="background-color: white; border: 0px; box-sizing: border-box; float: none; font-stretch: inherit; font-variant-numeric: inherit; line-height: 1.70588; margin-bottom: 1.17647em; max-width: 680px; padding: 0px 15px; position: static; vertical-align: baseline; width: auto;"><span style="font-family: &quot;arial&quot; , &quot;helvetica&quot; , sans-serif;">Now that I'm older than most dirt, the desire to fill up paper with pictures is tugging at my sleeve again.&nbsp;</span><br /><span style="font-family: &quot;arial&quot; , &quot;helvetica&quot; , sans-serif;"><br /></span><span style="font-family: &quot;arial&quot; , &quot;helvetica&quot; , sans-serif;">Today, there are no preschoolers swarming around me who might give up illustrious dreams of art school and the National Portrait Gallery because I drew a giraffe.&nbsp;</span><br /><span style="font-family: &quot;arial&quot; , &quot;helvetica&quot; , sans-serif;"><br /></span><span style="font-family: &quot;arial&quot; , &quot;helvetica&quot; , sans-serif;">There are no sneering art directors.&nbsp;</span><br /><span style="font-family: &quot;arial&quot; , &quot;helvetica&quot; , sans-serif;"><br /></span><span style="font-family: &quot;arial&quot; , &quot;helvetica&quot; , sans-serif;">There are no mean kids like the one in middle school who teased me daily until her friends pointed out that I could draw horses. ("Well..." she said grudgingly, and then, pointing to the line I drew under a horse, added triumphantly, "but she's not very good at ground.")</span></div><div style="background-color: white; border: 0px; box-sizing: border-box; float: none; font-stretch: inherit; font-variant-numeric: inherit; line-height: 1.70588; margin-bottom: 1.17647em; max-width: 680px; padding: 0px 15px; position: static; vertical-align: baseline; width: auto;"><span style="font-family: &quot;arial&quot; , &quot;helvetica&quot; , sans-serif;">No, now I just have to contend with what's on my desk: jars of pencils and empty sheets of paper, and a wall as intimidating as Becher's Brook in the Grand National steeplechase. Written on this wall is something to the effect of "what is the purpose of doing this? is there an end goal? what is the point?"&nbsp;</span></div><div style="background-color: white; border: 0px; box-sizing: border-box; float: none; font-stretch: inherit; font-variant-numeric: inherit; line-height: 1.70588; margin-bottom: 1.17647em; max-width: 680px; padding: 0px 15px; position: static; vertical-align: baseline; width: auto;"><span style="font-family: &quot;arial&quot; , &quot;helvetica&quot; , sans-serif;">I'm realizing that the past two decades have required a lot of getting-things-done both at home and at work (this kind of goes with the territory of Being a Grown-Up) and that I have to go back to my earliest years as well as my daughter's childhood to relocate that lovely feeling of just doing something for no reason at all...not to get fit, or clean something, or finish a writing job, or the like. It's harder than I'd thought it would be.</span></div><div style="background-color: white; border: 0px; box-sizing: border-box; float: none; font-stretch: inherit; font-variant-numeric: inherit; line-height: 1.70588; margin-bottom: 1.17647em; max-width: 680px; padding: 0px 15px; position: static; vertical-align: baseline; width: auto;"><a href="https://3.bp.blogspot.com/-On9FMXooLdM/WVxuMIw5BzI/AAAAAAAAK5M/qD-4g0awreocveLB5VllP49qAKzFNKkGQCLcBGAs/s1600/drawbreakers.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="336" data-original-width="475" height="226" src="https://3.bp.blogspot.com/-On9FMXooLdM/WVxuMIw5BzI/AAAAAAAAK5M/qD-4g0awreocveLB5VllP49qAKzFNKkGQCLcBGAs/s320/drawbreakers.jpg" width="320" /></a><span style="font-family: &quot;arial&quot; , &quot;helvetica&quot; , sans-serif;">In the midst of all this self-scrutiny, though, I've been stumbling upon little messages left and right. For starters, I discovered that my shelves held a copy of <i>Drawbreakers</i> (Klutz Press), a doodling book filled with ridiculous things like a leopard to daub with your own pattern and a photo of a fishing rod and line clearly pulling something in--but it's up to you to draw the "something."&nbsp;</span><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: &quot;arial&quot; , &quot;helvetica&quot; , sans-serif;"></span></div></div><div style="background-color: white; border: 0px; box-sizing: border-box; float: none; font-stretch: inherit; font-variant-numeric: inherit; line-height: 1.70588; margin-bottom: 1.17647em; max-width: 680px; padding: 0px 15px; position: static; vertical-align: baseline; width: auto;"><span style="font-family: &quot;arial&quot; , &quot;helvetica&quot; , sans-serif;">Then I was reading <i>Lily and the Octopus</i> by Steven Rowley and came upon this paragraph, which describes the narrator visiting Kal, a tattoo artist who sits down to design an image with him and says, "Let's Draw":</span></div><blockquote class="tr_bq" style="background-color: white; border: 0px; box-sizing: border-box; float: none; font-stretch: inherit; font-variant-numeric: inherit; line-height: 1.70588; margin-bottom: 1.17647em; max-width: 680px; padding: 0px 15px; position: static; vertical-align: baseline; width: auto;"><span style="font-family: &quot;arial&quot; , &quot;helvetica&quot; , sans-serif;">I smile the way I did as a child when receiving a fresh box of sixty-four Crayola crayons-unabashedly, showing all my teeth. I remember how much I used to love to draw, and I wonder why I don't do it anymore. &nbsp;I write, I guess. I draw with words. But when I see Kal's pad and charcoal, I'm overwhelmed with the feeling that it's not the same.</span></blockquote><div style="background-color: white; border: 0px; box-sizing: border-box; float: none; font-stretch: inherit; font-variant-numeric: inherit; line-height: 1.70588; margin-bottom: 1.17647em; max-width: 680px; padding: 0px 15px; position: static; vertical-align: baseline; width: auto;"><span style="background-color: transparent;"><span style="color: #333333; font-family: &quot;arial&quot; , &quot;helvetica&quot; , sans-serif;">And then there was <i>this </i>imperative, from Lynda Barry in <i>What It Is</i>:</span></span></div><blockquote class="tr_bq" style="background-color: white; border: 0px; box-sizing: border-box; float: none; font-stretch: inherit; font-variant-numeric: inherit; line-height: 1.70588; margin-bottom: 1.17647em; max-width: 680px; padding: 0px 15px; position: static; vertical-align: baseline; width: auto;"><span style="background-color: transparent;"><span style="color: #333333; font-family: &quot;arial&quot; , &quot;helvetica&quot; , sans-serif;"><b>To all the kids who quit drawing...come back!</b></span></span></blockquote><div style="background-color: white; border: 0px; box-sizing: border-box; float: none; font-stretch: inherit; font-variant-numeric: inherit; line-height: 1.70588; margin-bottom: 1.17647em; max-width: 680px; padding: 0px 15px; position: static; vertical-align: baseline; width: auto;"><span style="color: #333333; font-family: &quot;arial&quot; , &quot;helvetica&quot; , sans-serif;">Finally, I came across the transcript of an&nbsp;</span><a href="http://www.npr.org/templates/story/story.php?storyId=103818071" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">NPR</a><span style="color: #333333; font-family: &quot;arial&quot; , &quot;helvetica&quot; , sans-serif;">&nbsp;interview with Mo Willems of </span><i style="color: #333333; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Pigeon</i><span style="color: #333333; font-family: &quot;arial&quot; , &quot;helvetica&quot; , sans-serif;"> fame, who sounds as if he wouldn't lend much credence to the advice of The Young Child-Rearing Expert in the preschool co-op:</span></div><blockquote class="tr_bq" style="background-color: white; border: 0px; box-sizing: border-box; float: none; font-stretch: inherit; font-variant-numeric: inherit; line-height: 1.70588; margin-bottom: 1.17647em; max-width: 680px; padding: 0px 15px; position: static; vertical-align: baseline; width: auto;"><span style="color: #333333; font-family: &quot;arial&quot; , &quot;helvetica&quot; , sans-serif;">One of the interesting things about cartooning and doodling and drawing is that people stop when they decide they're not good at it. Nobody stops playing basketball when they realize they're not going to become a professional. The same thing should apply to cartooning....</span><span style="color: #333333; font-family: &quot;arial&quot; , &quot;helvetica&quot; , sans-serif;">One of the biggest reasons children stop drawing is that they see that adults don't do it, Willems says. When he goes into classrooms, he says, teachers often ask him to get the kids to draw. But when he does, many of the teachers don't participate. &nbsp;</span><span style="color: #333333; font-family: &quot;arial&quot; , &quot;helvetica&quot; , sans-serif;">"Well, now the kids realize that this is just a baby activity," he says.&nbsp;</span><span style="color: #333333; font-family: &quot;arial&quot; , &quot;helvetica&quot; , sans-serif;">He reminds us that parents are actually cool in kids' eyes — for a while — and kids want to imitate what they do.</span></blockquote><span style="font-family: &quot;arial&quot; , &quot;helvetica&quot; , sans-serif;">I guess I can <i>draw </i>a conclusion from all this.&nbsp;</span><br /><span style="font-family: &quot;arial&quot; , &quot;helvetica&quot; , sans-serif;"><br /></span><span style="font-family: &quot;arial&quot; , &quot;helvetica&quot; , sans-serif;">Go sharpen those pencils! &nbsp;</span><br /><span style="font-family: &quot;arial&quot; , &quot;helvetica&quot; , sans-serif;"><br /></span><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://4.bp.blogspot.com/-sa3ejg6CRUw/WVxubdQhZWI/AAAAAAAAK5Q/ygFtzoY_sOU9Mvee-LFz-K-YE8vXsbxFwCKgBGAs/s1600/20170704_213946.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="900" data-original-width="1600" height="225" src="https://4.bp.blogspot.com/-sa3ejg6CRUw/WVxubdQhZWI/AAAAAAAAK5Q/ygFtzoY_sOU9Mvee-LFz-K-YE8vXsbxFwCKgBGAs/s400/20170704_213946.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><span style="font-family: &quot;arial&quot; , &quot;helvetica&quot; , sans-serif;"><br /></span><span style="font-family: &quot;arial&quot; , &quot;helvetica&quot; , sans-serif;"><br /></span><span style="font-family: &quot;arial&quot; , &quot;helvetica&quot; , sans-serif;"><br /></span><span style="font-family: &quot;arial&quot; , &quot;helvetica&quot; , sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>Christina Wilsdonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02472802098557216513noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3981659012070333472.post-28117576908051474222017-05-11T18:43:00.000-07:002017-05-16T06:56:28.915-07:00Rueing Rhubarb, Stewing Rhubarb<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on"><table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; margin-left: 1em; text-align: right;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://4.bp.blogspot.com/-_d-P9FXzuuc/WRURs6XrD2I/AAAAAAAAKNc/o3C4LVLAFCcwKPqKtdo5XVSqVltLuNxOQCLcB/s1600/tiffany%2Brabbit.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="307" src="https://4.bp.blogspot.com/-_d-P9FXzuuc/WRURs6XrD2I/AAAAAAAAKNc/o3C4LVLAFCcwKPqKtdo5XVSqVltLuNxOQCLcB/s320/tiffany%2Brabbit.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i>Thumper and Tiffany (at right).</i></td></tr></tbody></table>I should hate rhubarb. &nbsp;I really should. It is probably the wicked plant that did in my lovable pet bunny rabbit, Tiffany.<br /><br />Tiffany was a big, friendly white rabbit with brown ears, a rakish brown patch on one eye, and a sprinkling of brown spots on his back. Yes, <i>his </i>back. &nbsp;Tiffany was named Tiffany when I thought he was a girl. <br /><br />When Thumper, my female Dutch rabbit, gave birth to four little bunnies, it was a major clue that Tiffany must be a boy rabbit.<br /><br />His hefty size and pleasant nature should have been a tip-off. &nbsp; Buck rabbits tend to be more easygoing, while does are a bit more wary and territorial. Thumper was downright aggressive--she growled, attacked my gloved hand, and pivoted to keep me in her line of sight when I had to reach inside her cage. &nbsp;The&nbsp;Killer Rabbit of Caerbannog had nothing on her.<br /><br /><a href="https://3.bp.blogspot.com/-qRXR8DNPgd4/WRUR9gLlzRI/AAAAAAAAKNg/LjawE6zrz3Q9BOtkTpQskrX0jwaHeESUwCLcB/s1600/rhubarb%2Bstalks.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="400" src="https://3.bp.blogspot.com/-qRXR8DNPgd4/WRUR9gLlzRI/AAAAAAAAKNg/LjawE6zrz3Q9BOtkTpQskrX0jwaHeESUwCLcB/s400/rhubarb%2Bstalks.jpg" width="223" /></a>Tiffany, on the other hand, was a doofus. Which was probably why he nibbled on a toxic plant in the first place. Wild rabbits would know better than to dine on rhubarb leaves. But I was in my early teens &nbsp;and didn't know any more than he did about rhubarb. &nbsp;I had never tasted rhubarb pie; I couldn't even describe what rhubarb was. But a rhubarb plant was growing in the fenced pool area, where I often set the rabbits free to romp, and I should've educated myself about poisonous plants before letting Tiffany loose in there.<br /><br />Though maybe it was the rhododendrons he ate, in which case I am still responsible for his demise, but I can at least love rhubarb without any pangs of guilt.<br /><br />Because if no deceased rabbits are involved, rhubarb is simply splendid. It grows easily, is one of the first vegetables in the garden to spring to life after winter, and can be transformed into tartly sweet pies, jams, jellies, coffeecakes, compotes, chutneys, syrups, and wine.<br /><br />We have several rhubarb patches in the yard, though one of them is now consigned to be For Decoration Only. That's because last year, when the resident teen tripped over a bucket of motor oil drained from her truck, the patch was inundated with the nasty runoff.<br /><br /><table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; margin-left: 1em; text-align: right;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://2.bp.blogspot.com/-BgCBfwGjLKQ/WRUSGtG589I/AAAAAAAAKNk/m72WUV0mHJQqRCNiBWNanupRbWxrybUbwCLcB/s1600/rhubarb%2Bflowers.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="400" src="https://2.bp.blogspot.com/-BgCBfwGjLKQ/WRUSGtG589I/AAAAAAAAKNk/m72WUV0mHJQqRCNiBWNanupRbWxrybUbwCLcB/s400/rhubarb%2Bflowers.jpg" width="223" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i>Rhubarb flowers</i></td></tr></tbody></table>This year, somebody else nearly backed over the plants; for weeks, they stood in a shrieking row at the lip of the deep tire rut, looking like Victorian ladies who've seen a mouse. &nbsp;They will be allowed to live out their lives in peace, flowering at will and flaunting giant green leaves.<br /><br />The first of this year's crop, taken from the stress- and oil-free patches, made its way into a chicken-rhubarb dish. The next harvest became an upside-down rhubarb coffeecake, using this recipe from <i>The&nbsp;New York Times</i>:<br /><a href="https://cooking.nytimes.com/recipes/1013611-rhubarb-upside-down-cake">https://cooking.nytimes.com/recipes/1013611-rhubarb-upside-down-cake</a><br /><br />When I got to work on that recipe, at first I thought, well, how <i>fussy</i>. "Line the bottom of a 9-inch springform pan with parchment paper," it said. &nbsp;"Butter the paper and sides of the pan. Wrap two layers of foil under the pan, and place it on a buttered baking sheet."<br /><br />This was a <i>cake </i>I was making, I thought. I'm not roasting plutonium. I decided my grandmother's reliable springform pan wasn't going to leak, so I ignored the layers of containment. (I also used regular flour instead of cake flour, because I didn't have cake flour.)<br /><br /><a href="https://4.bp.blogspot.com/-R5NYgJRiu5c/WRUSd6hTDHI/AAAAAAAAKNo/XhvuipRxNIoALgCmAOSpGUNzPidgWUifgCLcB/s1600/rhubarb%2Bcake.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="400" src="https://4.bp.blogspot.com/-R5NYgJRiu5c/WRUSd6hTDHI/AAAAAAAAKNo/XhvuipRxNIoALgCmAOSpGUNzPidgWUifgCLcB/s400/rhubarb%2Bcake.jpg" width="225" /></a>Well. &nbsp;The harsh fumes surging from the kitchen told me that there was a reason for all the containment, actually. The cake calls for a thick sugary syrup that's poured into the pan first, then topped with the rhubarb mixture and finally the batter. That syrup? It likes to ooze out of the pan and across the cookie sheet and onto the oven floor, it turns out.<br /><br />A quick clean-up of the oven floor and replacement of the cookie sheet with a sturdy rimmed baking sheet saved the cake, which turned out delicious, despite missing its layer of caramelized syrup. I'm still wondering how the cake would have any of this glaze on it at all, even if you swathe it in layers of foil, because wouldn't that process just yield a delicious cake along with a pile of gooey foil? I guess this calls for making another cake.<br /><br />Other great rhubarb recipes that are mainstays at our house:<br /><br />Rhubarb Pecan Cake, page 44, <i>Bundt Cake Bliss</i><br />Rhubarb Crisp Pie, page 51, <i>Pies and Tarts</i> (Williams-Sonoma Kitchen Library)<br />Strawberry Rhubarb Crunch, page 25 (and just about every other recipe), <i>The Joy of Rhubarb</i><br /><br />And don't forget we Washingtonians live in the nation's leading rhubarb-producing state, and you can even visit Sumner, the <a href="http://rhubarbpiecapital.com/">rhubarb pie capital</a>, to enjoy the Rhubarb Festival.<br /><br /><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://3.bp.blogspot.com/-ZwhFcbLiQOo/WRUSogz4CnI/AAAAAAAAKNs/mV6nrBX_bDgC6oDfflTQ-AiYO2V5Wyb5wCLcB/s1600/rhubarb%2Bslugs.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="358" src="https://3.bp.blogspot.com/-ZwhFcbLiQOo/WRUSogz4CnI/AAAAAAAAKNs/mV6nrBX_bDgC6oDfflTQ-AiYO2V5Wyb5wCLcB/s640/rhubarb%2Bslugs.jpg" width="640" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i>Old willow ware viewed through windows in rhubarb leaf chewed by slugs. <br />Which apparently can eat rhubarb leaves without harm.</i></td></tr></tbody></table><br /><br /><br /></div>Christina Wilsdonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02472802098557216513noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3981659012070333472.post-77899905884027216452016-10-23T17:04:00.001-07:002016-10-23T17:04:49.335-07:00The Velvet Evolution--"National Velvet" in the Eyes of the Beholder<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on"><table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; margin-left: 1em; text-align: right;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://4.bp.blogspot.com/-mmiSqF9R-Uc/WAzvUENQPmI/AAAAAAAAJLc/gLOI0esi9ngh80sHBV55yqMhZiKOZoDvQCLcB/s1600/pie%2Band%2Bvelvet.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="293" src="https://4.bp.blogspot.com/-mmiSqF9R-Uc/WAzvUENQPmI/AAAAAAAAJLc/gLOI0esi9ngh80sHBV55yqMhZiKOZoDvQCLcB/s320/pie%2Band%2Bvelvet.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i>Elizabeth Taylor as Velvet aboard King Charles, <br />the horse who played The Pie.</i></td></tr></tbody></table>"Edwina, Malvolia and Meredith were all exactly alike, like golden greyhounds. Their golden hair was sleek, their fine faces like antelopes, their shoulders still and steady like Zulu women carrying water, and their bodies beneath the shoulders rippled when they moved. They were seventeen, sixteen, and fifteen. Velvet was fourteen. Velvet had short pale hair, large, protruding teeth, a sweet smile, and a mouthful of metal."<br /><br />That's how author Enid Bagnold introduces Velvet, the main character in her novel <i>National &nbsp;Velvet. </i>Velvet&nbsp;was also scrawny and prone to vomiting whenever she got nervous.<br /><br />So of course Elizabeth Taylor would be the first person you'd think of to play her in a movie.<br /><br />I never was able to figure that one out, back when I was a horse-mad girl. I knew Taylor was regarded as a great beauty, and that even as a kid in the 1944 film she was cute as a bug. But that's just the thing. Velvet was a scarecrow.<br /><br /><table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-U3hbqfqIxiU/WAzwR2_PyAI/AAAAAAAAJLg/HSoeIjfFYcMOy8MpzsJ8X0He4bJudJQTgCLcB/s1600/pie%2Band%2Bvelvet%2B2.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-U3hbqfqIxiU/WAzwR2_PyAI/AAAAAAAAJLg/HSoeIjfFYcMOy8MpzsJ8X0He4bJudJQTgCLcB/s320/pie%2Band%2Bvelvet%2B2.jpg" width="251" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i>Taylor was given King Charles at the close <br />of the movie's production. Taylor and the<br />horse got along famously. She spoke lovingly<br />of the bond they had and never forgot him.</i></td></tr></tbody></table>A wonderful, beautiful character--as are all the people in <i>National Velvet</i>, which is not really a "kiddy" horse tale but rather a story about the complexity of family relationships, about hopes and dreams, about regrets and longings--but still, she is an odd, awkward girl quite different from her lovely sisters.<br /><br />It made me cross that they turned her into a dreamy, pretty girl in the film (though I do like the film a lot, including Taylor's performance, on its own).<br /><br />The original 1944 review in The New York Times describes how "little Elizabeth Taylor...plays the role of the horse-loving girl" with a "face alive with youthful spirit, her voice has the softness of sweet song and her whole manner in this picture is one of refreshing grace."<br /><br />It also was vexing to see what the short, strong black- and white-spotted horse, The Pie, turned into. In the book, Velvet calls him "the piebald" and dubs him The Pie. In the movie, he's played by a rangy chestnut Thoroughbred called Pie, short for Pirate.<br /><br /><table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; margin-left: 1em; text-align: right;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://3.bp.blogspot.com/-3guSfufnVKY/WAzw7114drI/AAAAAAAAJLk/v1VeqrwWpRkExt6reZnlHzKNIPP3M6TWwCLcB/s1600/pie%2Band%2Bvelvet%2B3.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://3.bp.blogspot.com/-3guSfufnVKY/WAzw7114drI/AAAAAAAAJLk/v1VeqrwWpRkExt6reZnlHzKNIPP3M6TWwCLcB/s320/pie%2Band%2Bvelvet%2B3.jpg" width="233" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i>King Charles and Taylor. And the amount of <br />hay our horse Avi would eat in a week.</i></td></tr></tbody></table>Horse girls generally insist on fidelity to the book when it comes to horsy particulars, so I was ready to write to the Lord High Mayor of Hollywood about this pressing matter.<br /><br />It would be a long time before I'd learn that directors don't want spotted horses in movies because it's difficult to swap in other horses to play their roles. It's well nigh imposible to find exact matches, and though it's easy enough to touch up a star on a forehead, painting an entire animal is not.<br /><br />As I was rereading <i>National Velvet </i>(which, incidentally, features one of the most excellently portrayed younger brothers in the history of literature) and noticing just how very much Bagnold did <i>not </i>write this book solely for children (it features a slaughterhouse, a suicide, blood, and plenty of exclamations of "hell"), I found myself lost in the rabbit hole of the Internet looking up different editions of National Velvet to see how Pie and Velvet were portrayed. It was pretty amusing. Check it out below if you feel a similar need to procrastinate.<br /><br /><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-n4PZ3oxtlQM/WAzyJAxn9qI/AAAAAAAAJLw/RoXLOWoYRuQwJWYmMmeBFbTRHgksUe0UACLcB/s1600/national%2Bvelvet%2B9.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-n4PZ3oxtlQM/WAzyJAxn9qI/AAAAAAAAJLw/RoXLOWoYRuQwJWYmMmeBFbTRHgksUe0UACLcB/s320/national%2Bvelvet%2B9.jpg" width="222" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">For starters, here is the gold standard, my childhood copy: The Pie is a piebald. Velvet is simply a jockey. &nbsp;The first edition of <i>National Velvet</i> featuring illustrations by renowned equine artist Paul Brown was published in 1949. It's a vast improvement on the cover of the 1935 first British edition of the story, which is pink with black writing and nothing else. The pink and black, to the publisher's credit, wasn't chosen because pink is a "girl color." &nbsp;They are the colors Velvet chooses for her racing silks, and her conspirator, Mi, flat-out tells her she and The Pie will look horrible.</td></tr></tbody></table><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div><br /><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://2.bp.blogspot.com/-EUWwQkNLk-Y/WAz0zoR3alI/AAAAAAAAJNM/UihX9gIQi44YC5jQSYYUrh7S-Wd4VYSegCEw/s1600/nat%2Bvelvet%2B1st.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://2.bp.blogspot.com/-EUWwQkNLk-Y/WAz0zoR3alI/AAAAAAAAJNM/UihX9gIQi44YC5jQSYYUrh7S-Wd4VYSegCEw/s320/nat%2Bvelvet%2B1st.jpg" width="227" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Here's the first U.S. edition of the book. Dramatic red and black, and sculptural <br />pose of The Pie and Velvet. Velvet doesn't quite look fourteen years old, <br />but the image captures her drive and The Pie's willingness.</td></tr></tbody></table><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div><br /><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://4.bp.blogspot.com/-IUZoeqeFgww/WAzz4xuqorI/AAAAAAAAJNQ/VLNigxkMaS42zeyHLtb2gE2xnE3na6MVQCEw/s1600/national%2Bvelvet%2B16.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://4.bp.blogspot.com/-IUZoeqeFgww/WAzz4xuqorI/AAAAAAAAJNQ/VLNigxkMaS42zeyHLtb2gE2xnE3na6MVQCEw/s320/national%2Bvelvet%2B16.jpg" width="196" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Here's a 1960s British paperback version of the story featuring the sketches from the original, <br />which were done by Bagnold's daughter, the inspiration for the story.</td></tr></tbody></table><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div><br /><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://3.bp.blogspot.com/-GTINDTx-JgA/WAzz5nvmP5I/AAAAAAAAJNQ/9scgqVQolSgmMvxtJm2uTDC3-j68XVbkgCEw/s1600/national%2Bvelvet%2B5.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://3.bp.blogspot.com/-GTINDTx-JgA/WAzz5nvmP5I/AAAAAAAAJNQ/9scgqVQolSgmMvxtJm2uTDC3-j68XVbkgCEw/s320/national%2Bvelvet%2B5.jpg" width="269" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">A 1961 edition of <i>National Velvet</i> in classic "Little Golden Book" format. Velvet's gotten very <br />Western U.S. in appearance, and The Pie has morphed into a bay, thus resembling neither his piebald <br />book self or his chestnut movie self. Pretty, though.</td></tr></tbody></table><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://3.bp.blogspot.com/-cX6hgeqnPD4/WAz8GVFjm9I/AAAAAAAAJNs/s3io4FRpqI85-LR1UaZzqK3CJu_pWFc6gCLcB/s1600/national%2Bvelvet%2B21.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><span style="color: black;"><img border="0" src="https://3.bp.blogspot.com/-cX6hgeqnPD4/WAz8GVFjm9I/AAAAAAAAJNs/s3io4FRpqI85-LR1UaZzqK3CJu_pWFc6gCLcB/s1600/national%2Bvelvet%2B21.JPG" /></span></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: x-small;">A series of coloring books based on a TV version of <i>National Velvet</i> were produced in the 1960s. What up with the hunt attire, Velvet? Women traditionally (and the English equestrian world is nothing if not traditional) wear black or navy coats. Red is reserved for Master of Foxhounds and other hunt assistants. Though that has surely changed as more women moved into those ranks. Still, Velvet in the 1940s-1960s...well, wait a sec. Who am I to quibble over the coat color worn by a girl who went undercover as a male jockey riding in and winning the Grand National steeplechase? Oy. Never mind. But I am a bit worried about her coming off the horse in this image. &nbsp;And she needs a hair net.</span></td></tr></tbody></table><div style="text-align: center;"></div><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-nupOD5FeEXQ/WAz51wuWcII/AAAAAAAAJNw/Cf_AlXSf6jA1BW0fHfc9XBOWDGt69PsHgCEw/s1600/national%2Bvelvet%2B23.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-nupOD5FeEXQ/WAz51wuWcII/AAAAAAAAJNw/Cf_AlXSf6jA1BW0fHfc9XBOWDGt69PsHgCEw/s320/national%2Bvelvet%2B23.jpg" width="276" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">A 1962 picture book based on the early-60s NBC TV program loosely based on <i>National Velvet</i>. <br />When I say "loosely," I mean that book-Velvet who lived in a poor household in an English <br />village that was attached to a slaughterhouse run by her father and owned a rakish <br />piebald gelding turned into a girl living in the United States living on a sprawling <br />dairy farm who owned a Thoroughbred stallion. &nbsp;Because life is like that.</td></tr></tbody></table><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div><br /><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://4.bp.blogspot.com/-OITj89ABymQ/WAzz5luB-wI/AAAAAAAAJNQ/toLy9rvRJIYU3h2GhvqnkBPwApERR6PQgCEw/s1600/national%2Bvelvet%2B6.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://4.bp.blogspot.com/-OITj89ABymQ/WAzz5luB-wI/AAAAAAAAJNQ/toLy9rvRJIYU3h2GhvqnkBPwApERR6PQgCEw/s320/national%2Bvelvet%2B6.jpg" width="210" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Another 1960s version of the story. Velvet has morphed into a stylish, slender young woman <br />wearing an outfit I associate with all those story series about girls in British boarding <br />schools. The Pie happens to be black, but the highlighting could be construed as &nbsp;spots, <br />I guess. However, they appear to be living in a far northern land where the <br />aurora borealis is particularly active.</td></tr></tbody></table><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div><br /><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://4.bp.blogspot.com/-oz-9aYv4668/WAzz5za6qxI/AAAAAAAAJNQ/QVIM1xmAsNQqzOJyrHL4iyY1tOxs1Nj6gCEw/s1600/national%2Bvelvet%2B7.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://4.bp.blogspot.com/-oz-9aYv4668/WAzz5za6qxI/AAAAAAAAJNQ/QVIM1xmAsNQqzOJyrHL4iyY1tOxs1Nj6gCEw/s320/national%2Bvelvet%2B7.jpg" width="209" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">1960s-era edition. Interestingly, the interior contains the beautiful Paul Brown illustrations, <br />but the cover features a perky, sunny, healthy Velvet with a Black-Beauty-esque version of <br />The Pie. I suppose the GQ gentleman trotting up with the saddle is supposed to be Mi, <br />former jockey turned slaughterhouse assistant who lives in a rotting stall next to the <br />Browns' carthorse. I don't know who the dapper fellow by the fence could possibly be.</td></tr></tbody></table><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div><br /><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://3.bp.blogspot.com/-vNh_QLdvQuM/WAzz4RyBnTI/AAAAAAAAJNQ/_gIeB9vxIYcXOAGNeNUlNlwgWqWhR8NfgCEw/s1600/national%2Bvelvet%2B11.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://3.bp.blogspot.com/-vNh_QLdvQuM/WAzz4RyBnTI/AAAAAAAAJNQ/_gIeB9vxIYcXOAGNeNUlNlwgWqWhR8NfgCEw/s320/national%2Bvelvet%2B11.jpg" width="233" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">This one is a 1961 picture-book version of the story. The Pie is at least a piebald, <br />but with that LL Bean version of Mi and a scrubbed-up version of Velvet's <br />little brother sitting a mere two feet away from the jumping horse, The Pie <br />must be a very, very tiny horse indeed. Velvet is also playing once <br />again at being Master of Foxhounds.</td></tr></tbody></table><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div><br /><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-xC2Qk8Q2JEs/WAzz4pCSdZI/AAAAAAAAJNQ/RaRKI7MCQSgoW_Wcgdrbj96OjBVHSn_5QCEw/s1600/national%2Bvelvet%2B13.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-xC2Qk8Q2JEs/WAzz4pCSdZI/AAAAAAAAJNQ/RaRKI7MCQSgoW_Wcgdrbj96OjBVHSn_5QCEw/s320/national%2Bvelvet%2B13.jpg" width="211" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">A 1968 paperback version of the story. Velvet appears to be swept along on some <br />sort of wave of ecstasy as she gazes at a glorious future with her Breck hair <br />blowing in the wind. Bit disturbing, those fangs, though. Is there a vampire <br />version of <i>National Velvet </i>in our future? The Pie will become The Twi (short for Twilight)?&nbsp;</td></tr></tbody></table><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div><br /><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://3.bp.blogspot.com/-EwcFWX5a2Is/WAzz55n0mYI/AAAAAAAAJNQ/p3mfkle7WgY-morjXRKdCN59T7UOFFSsgCEw/s1600/national%2Bvelvet%2B8.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://3.bp.blogspot.com/-EwcFWX5a2Is/WAzz55n0mYI/AAAAAAAAJNQ/p3mfkle7WgY-morjXRKdCN59T7UOFFSsgCEw/s320/national%2Bvelvet%2B8.jpg" width="192" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">A 1991 paperback, with Velvet sporting freshly blow-dried locks and a Western-style shirt. <br />Clearly the famous braces and mouthpiece that plagued her in the book have paid off in a <br />nice, straight smile. &nbsp;The wild-eyed Pie has transformed into his literary ancestor <br />Black Beauty, a calm and gentle steed who would barely bite a carrot, let alone his dear rider.</td></tr></tbody></table><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div><br /><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://2.bp.blogspot.com/-S-sDp8Y9UnQ/WAzz4S8ftNI/AAAAAAAAJNQ/GV-Ym8o993ggjl1pr8LTS0xqhnmh3R3NgCEw/s1600/national%2Bvelvet%2B12.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://2.bp.blogspot.com/-S-sDp8Y9UnQ/WAzz4S8ftNI/AAAAAAAAJNQ/GV-Ym8o993ggjl1pr8LTS0xqhnmh3R3NgCEw/s320/national%2Bvelvet%2B12.jpg" width="240" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">I think one of Velvet's glowing, golden-haired sisters kicked her out of this cover and took <br />over her spot. Black Beauty once again stands in for The Pie. He also appears to have shrunk. <br />Have you ever cuddled up next to a horse in this way? A horse's head is, like, nearly <br />as long as your torso. Maybe she is kneeling and The Pie is a mini.</td></tr></tbody></table><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div><br /><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://4.bp.blogspot.com/-fXFRZF2oFQk/WA0QkR2lwxI/AAAAAAAAJOA/HEsQwncd_0kDmLqe_U04HGUG0ZY8ele0QCLcB/s1600/national%2Bvelvet%2B18.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://4.bp.blogspot.com/-fXFRZF2oFQk/WA0QkR2lwxI/AAAAAAAAJOA/HEsQwncd_0kDmLqe_U04HGUG0ZY8ele0QCLcB/s320/national%2Bvelvet%2B18.jpg" width="253" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">This is a 2012 edition published in the UK. The horse, of course, is completely unlike <br />The Pie in every way, but he is exactly the kind of horse my horse-mad friends <br />and I drew all the time, with elegant legs and flying tail, so as an illustration I love it. <br />It's not at all Grand-National-realistic but never mind.</td></tr></tbody></table><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-UP8mtJFDrDs/WAzz5OBXgPI/AAAAAAAAJNQ/_gOrqWdY-a8raEyR5QaPwj0wKPzDLGhbQCEw/s1600/national%2Bvelvet%2B2.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-UP8mtJFDrDs/WAzz5OBXgPI/AAAAAAAAJNQ/_gOrqWdY-a8raEyR5QaPwj0wKPzDLGhbQCEw/s320/national%2Bvelvet%2B2.jpg" width="222" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">A 1999 edition. The Pie is a piebald, hooray! Velvet's still rather <br />too glam in a waifish way, but at least the burning intensity is there <br />instead of just dreaminess.</td></tr></tbody></table><br /><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-lUprKDvyaQk/WA0UPS2cUbI/AAAAAAAAJOM/s6FiiBu64ccQ2t2g9AupCdNTiTMvNs7qgCLcB/s1600/national%2Bvelvet%2B25.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-lUprKDvyaQk/WA0UPS2cUbI/AAAAAAAAJOM/s6FiiBu64ccQ2t2g9AupCdNTiTMvNs7qgCLcB/s320/national%2Bvelvet%2B25.jpg" width="190" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">OK. I swore I was going to stop, stop, stop. Because you can find a glabillion versions of <br /><i>National Velvet</i> online. But then I saw this one. Dear God. Once again one of Velvet's <br />sisters has shoved her aside, and the horses appear to be running in terror from <br />this giant head that has suddenly materialized on their horizon.</td></tr></tbody></table><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div><br /><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://2.bp.blogspot.com/-t1ZG4ZE1jns/WAzz4_ROyuI/AAAAAAAAJNQ/3kkmYyvAGEULboRPQxM2lp_TFc36OZ7XQCEw/s1600/national%2Bvelvet%2B17.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="400" src="https://2.bp.blogspot.com/-t1ZG4ZE1jns/WAzz4_ROyuI/AAAAAAAAJNQ/3kkmYyvAGEULboRPQxM2lp_TFc36OZ7XQCEw/s400/national%2Bvelvet%2B17.jpg" width="261" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">By far the loveliest cover, in my humble opinion. It's the 1985 golden-anniversary edition, <br />beautifully illustrated by Ted Lewin. This amazing illustrator grew up in a household that <br />kept many pets, including a lion. I love the angle of The Pie jumping over the rock wall <br />mentioned in the book. Velvet is dressed as she was in the story, too--in her <br />day-to-day garb. She and her sisters were so poor that they had to take turns <br />wearing a coat when they went to a horse show.</td></tr></tbody></table><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div><br /><br /><br /></div>Christina Wilsdonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02472802098557216513noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3981659012070333472.post-41111331081727453932016-10-16T20:07:00.000-07:002016-10-17T09:57:09.225-07:00Frogs, Bugs, and Arachnids, Oh My!<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div>I've been busy settling into a new full-time job, and certainly having a full-time job has been a fine thing; however, I've somehow fallen behind in everything else I do. And here it is ruddy October already. Oh well. Here are a few of the animals I met on safari in the garden this past summer.<br /><br /><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://4.bp.blogspot.com/-Kpg1TXQDF8E/WAO76tqQEiI/AAAAAAAAJKA/queikriR_qI92G9vCsqo0eq9Y0pKd141QCLcB/s1600/P1280350.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="266" src="https://4.bp.blogspot.com/-Kpg1TXQDF8E/WAO76tqQEiI/AAAAAAAAJKA/queikriR_qI92G9vCsqo0eq9Y0pKd141QCLcB/s400/P1280350.JPG" width="400" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">This guy showed up in a drain at the top of our driveway, hopping up and down and bashing his head against the grate. &nbsp;I caught him and hung on to him long enough to get a photo. Above, he's briefly escaped and sitting, astonished, before I caught him again.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-M5LO_euzpF4/WAO8Cu9N6kI/AAAAAAAAJKE/FSE9OUYidRQfgoP3YngHoSpEob5gjbL-QCLcB/s1600/P1280363.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="266" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-M5LO_euzpF4/WAO8Cu9N6kI/AAAAAAAAJKE/FSE9OUYidRQfgoP3YngHoSpEob5gjbL-QCLcB/s400/P1280363.JPG" width="400" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: small;">I am pretty sure he is a green frog. OK, don't try and get funny with me. I know he is a frog. I know he is green. I mean a green frog, as in&nbsp;<span style="background-color: white; color: #252525;"><i>Rana clamitans. </i>Green frogs are native to the eastern United States but now found in parts of Washington State. Such as our drainage ditch. I, too, am native to the eastern United States, so we had quite a friendly chat before I set him free. &nbsp;We often hear him croaking loudly on damp evenings.</span></span></td></tr></tbody></table><br /><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://3.bp.blogspot.com/-PSuWqPYyqMU/WAO8Qn8k5cI/AAAAAAAAJKI/QvInGi8IYUIoX23irLcsKE5H80z5Gce-ACLcB/s1600/P1280369.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="266" src="https://3.bp.blogspot.com/-PSuWqPYyqMU/WAO8Qn8k5cI/AAAAAAAAJKI/QvInGi8IYUIoX23irLcsKE5H80z5Gce-ACLcB/s400/P1280369.JPG" width="400" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: small;">Gracious. Would you just look at what's going on in the daisy patch. &nbsp;I'm afraid all I can tell you is that these are beetles. My field guides and the Internet are letting me down big time, hence no more specific identification. Whatever they are, they are making more of themselves. They also trundle about the daisies covered with pollen so they're helping to make more daisies, too.</span></td></tr></tbody></table><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://2.bp.blogspot.com/-O0fjjRKfOas/WAO-FoXuQnI/AAAAAAAAJKY/c35zrNZeBOowKzqe-jScpI1FkZbUH50twCEw/s1600/P1280458.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="266" src="https://2.bp.blogspot.com/-O0fjjRKfOas/WAO-FoXuQnI/AAAAAAAAJKY/c35zrNZeBOowKzqe-jScpI1FkZbUH50twCEw/s400/P1280458.JPG" width="400" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: small;">Sometimes the whatever-they-are beetles get all shy and stuff, and hide, which is rather ridiculous seeing as to what they're perfectly happy getting up to right in the town square.</span></td></tr></tbody></table><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://4.bp.blogspot.com/-r8yflmTpPQU/WAO8eGK9LLI/AAAAAAAAJKc/9Vidx7iu6uYMFOL6ICkNI8gLHQrnqE8WgCEw/s1600/P1280381.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="266" src="https://4.bp.blogspot.com/-r8yflmTpPQU/WAO8eGK9LLI/AAAAAAAAJKc/9Vidx7iu6uYMFOL6ICkNI8gLHQrnqE8WgCEw/s400/P1280381.JPG" width="400" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: small;">This fat little fellow is a well-fed aphid.</span></td></tr></tbody></table><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://3.bp.blogspot.com/-kZxc2BHA6Ms/WAO-XfssopI/AAAAAAAAJKk/28OkCTzekTQb2GsHI23rjOULaSW-iZ5NACEw/s1600/P1280475.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="266" src="https://3.bp.blogspot.com/-kZxc2BHA6Ms/WAO-XfssopI/AAAAAAAAJKk/28OkCTzekTQb2GsHI23rjOULaSW-iZ5NACEw/s400/P1280475.JPG" width="400" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: small;">One of our many garden snails enjoying an ooze along a rock on a very wet day.</span></td></tr></tbody></table><br /><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://3.bp.blogspot.com/-jXT1sPp5ErM/WAO-JyF09FI/AAAAAAAAJKg/6LZlBNmbvqcSogoSUcRBdGuw5hIFlcPsgCEw/s1600/P1280457.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="266" src="https://3.bp.blogspot.com/-jXT1sPp5ErM/WAO-JyF09FI/AAAAAAAAJKg/6LZlBNmbvqcSogoSUcRBdGuw5hIFlcPsgCEw/s400/P1280457.JPG" width="400" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: small;">I can't see the pattern on the head of this lady beetle, so I can't tell you if it is a spotless lady beetle, even though it is obviously spotless, because it could be a spotless spotted beetle.</span></td></tr></tbody></table><br /><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://2.bp.blogspot.com/-865hUfd9ryk/WAO9rvZ_ElI/AAAAAAAAJKQ/UHeIlGhGe8samfzAQYzv8ifUu30ZN7xwACEw/s1600/P1280420.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="266" src="https://2.bp.blogspot.com/-865hUfd9ryk/WAO9rvZ_ElI/AAAAAAAAJKQ/UHeIlGhGe8samfzAQYzv8ifUu30ZN7xwACEw/s400/P1280420.JPG" width="400" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: small;">This may be a six-spotted orb weaver. Or it may not. I often see crab spiders but this doesn' t look like any of those even though this capture of a bee is typical of crab spiders. (Alas, crab spider photos from this summer are probably &nbsp;miscatalogued and I can't find them....) &nbsp;But there appears to be webbing over the unfortunate bee's abdomen, which lends credence to the orb-weaver bit. The daisy petals were curled around the grisly scene.&nbsp;</span></td></tr></tbody></table><br /><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://3.bp.blogspot.com/-P5pxh1Xz600/WAO_KeUo7WI/AAAAAAAAJKo/mjhHqRsjKDEx7N6LVTvFbzU9kxnfBR4vACEw/s1600/P1280579.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="266" src="https://3.bp.blogspot.com/-P5pxh1Xz600/WAO_KeUo7WI/AAAAAAAAJKo/mjhHqRsjKDEx7N6LVTvFbzU9kxnfBR4vACEw/s400/P1280579.JPG" width="400" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: small;">I was wondering who was chewing the petals neatly off the daisies and then gobbling their interiors. I found this guy scooping up the yellow area as if he were face first in a big bowl of lemon custard.</span></td></tr></tbody></table><br /><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-QUxfyIdnEJI/WAQWoe8ZM8I/AAAAAAAAJK4/4LGjOJnjYOEEBMEhsxytcP3cWy73Jg36wCLcB/s1600/garden%2Bspider.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="281" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-QUxfyIdnEJI/WAQWoe8ZM8I/AAAAAAAAJK4/4LGjOJnjYOEEBMEhsxytcP3cWy73Jg36wCLcB/s400/garden%2Bspider.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: small;">A European garden spider checks out the center of a cosmos.</span></td></tr></tbody></table><br /><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-gNVvTExH7V0/WAQWpyRogEI/AAAAAAAAJLA/lHycHsAARfE2SrvVgNFDbc4J3pAF-C9SwCLcB/s1600/hoverfly.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="225" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-gNVvTExH7V0/WAQWpyRogEI/AAAAAAAAJLA/lHycHsAARfE2SrvVgNFDbc4J3pAF-C9SwCLcB/s400/hoverfly.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: small;">A hoverfly sips nectar from one of the dahlias. Completely harmless but looks like a bee so that predators and nosy people hesitate to come close.</span></td></tr></tbody></table><br /><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://4.bp.blogspot.com/-0iEjz_Jp52g/WAQWplqRa_I/AAAAAAAAJK8/cQKlBKSq0yYGfBg7ER3gk6Kf8TRAe34oQCLcB/s1600/katydid.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="225" src="https://4.bp.blogspot.com/-0iEjz_Jp52g/WAQWplqRa_I/AAAAAAAAJK8/cQKlBKSq0yYGfBg7ER3gk6Kf8TRAe34oQCLcB/s400/katydid.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: small;">This cheerful guy was perched on my Subaru window one summer morning. All I can tell you is that it's a katydid. I'm afraid my so-called "Insects of the Pacific Northwest" field guide has only about 5 orthopterans in it, and green katydids aren't among them. He was very large and had splendid antennae.</span></td></tr></tbody></table><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://2.bp.blogspot.com/-mb3WGnneP-I/WAQYBMkU3UI/AAAAAAAAJLE/0N9hDLIobn0Sg47oL3BnfuBoN_j6CpSggCLcB/s1600/leafhopper.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="266" src="https://2.bp.blogspot.com/-mb3WGnneP-I/WAQYBMkU3UI/AAAAAAAAJLE/0N9hDLIobn0Sg47oL3BnfuBoN_j6CpSggCLcB/s400/leafhopper.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: small;">A leafhopper tiptoes along a 'Munstead White' columbine.&nbsp;</span></td></tr></tbody></table><br /></div>Christina Wilsdonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02472802098557216513noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3981659012070333472.post-82457985411020094022016-07-12T09:22:00.001-07:002016-07-18T16:37:47.783-07:00Holy Moley, Green Anole!<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on"><a href="https://3.bp.blogspot.com/-bVTzo2ReNE4/V4UNEaHk50I/AAAAAAAAJDM/RuxF95ORwMg7RCWorUP5pjbEt-jmgVIUgCLcB/s1600/boy%2Bwith%2Brobot.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="340" src="https://3.bp.blogspot.com/-bVTzo2ReNE4/V4UNEaHk50I/AAAAAAAAJDM/RuxF95ORwMg7RCWorUP5pjbEt-jmgVIUgCLcB/s400/boy%2Bwith%2Brobot.jpg" width="400" /></a>When did you first start learning science in school as a young child?<br /><br />I don't recall ever having a science textbook in my hands during elementary school in the 1960s, despite this decade being the heyday of the Space Race after the 1957 launching of <i>Sputnik</i>.<br /><br />Sure, we dabbled in science a little bit, at least in fifth and sixth grade, which was when I started public school.<br /><br />I vaguely remember the eruption of Mt. Clay-and-Vinegar-and-Baking-Soda in the big sink of my sixth-grade classroom. A student had made it and brought it in as his science project, and I think the electrical circuit I built with my dad was part of this adventure, too.<br /><br />As I recall, the teacher had told us all to go home and find a science project to do. I'm sure many a parent quaked then as they do today when the kid comes home and says it's time to get a trifold board because the science fair is coming up.<br /><br />But my dad was an aeronautical engineer as well as a very capable carpenter, electrician, and fixer-of-things, so he was more than thrilled to throw himself into helping with this project.<br /><br />I was in Catholic school for first grade through fourth grade, however, and there was even less science education going on. (Which is odd considering how Catholics are not biblical fundamentalists, and the Church, for example, doesn't reject the theory of evolution.)<br /><br />My entire science education in those four years consisted of...a chameleon.<br /><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://3.bp.blogspot.com/-NB-l-jnFT8U/V4UOjCnLYBI/AAAAAAAAJDY/0DkZNlps7QYn8KE-BgUaO2g2eeB4KITdgCLcB/s1600/anole.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="184" src="https://3.bp.blogspot.com/-NB-l-jnFT8U/V4UOjCnLYBI/AAAAAAAAJDY/0DkZNlps7QYn8KE-BgUaO2g2eeB4KITdgCLcB/s320/anole.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><br />Yes. A single lizard. And actually, it wasn't even a chameleon. That's how poor our science education was. The little reptile was really a green anole--often called a chameleon in America, but a species distinction that would be pointed out by a teacher teaching science.<br /><br />But the anole wasn't even used to do that. It just sat on a rock in a little terrarium for a month. Sometimes we were allowed to look at it. It looked back. Then it was given away to a lucky kid at the end of the month, and that was that for science.<br /><br /><a href="https://2.bp.blogspot.com/-MYqZiVIL1Oc/V4UT7VQLHSI/AAAAAAAAJDo/3tiW2xUan9Mcy6Hhvv7qIfQS0UNUZhxygCLcB/s1600/milk%2Bcarton.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="200" src="https://2.bp.blogspot.com/-MYqZiVIL1Oc/V4UT7VQLHSI/AAAAAAAAJDo/3tiW2xUan9Mcy6Hhvv7qIfQS0UNUZhxygCLcB/s200/milk%2Bcarton.jpg" width="190" /></a>Oh. Wait. No. I think the planting of the corn seeds must've been science, too.<br /><br />We all brought in some dirt, put it in an empty half-pint milk container, stuck a corn seed in it, and set it on the window ledge.<br /><br />Except for Bernadette.<br /><br />Bernadette forgot dirt, so she used clay. Our seeds grew. Hers didn't. She looked ashamed and we glared at her as if she'd murdered a kitten.<br /><br />Sum total of science learned in grades 1-4:<br /><br /><ol style="text-align: left;"><li>Chameleon.&nbsp;</li><li>Grow plants in dirt, not clay.</li></ol><br />It's a start.<br /><br />This all changed when I entered the brand-spanking-new junior high school building constructed just an eight-minute walk from our house.<br /><br /><table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://4.bp.blogspot.com/-1rNwqCXgD3g/V4UVP49oXpI/AAAAAAAAJD0/a32nhmUnrx8grwgD9cUwdbr-R_SFvzLYACLcB/s1600/Robert_Bunsen_portrait.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="200" src="https://4.bp.blogspot.com/-1rNwqCXgD3g/V4UVP49oXpI/AAAAAAAAJD0/a32nhmUnrx8grwgD9cUwdbr-R_SFvzLYACLcB/s200/Robert_Bunsen_portrait.jpg" width="146" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i>Thank you, Robert Bunsen!</i></td></tr></tbody></table>Seventh-grade science and beyond was a dedicated class, held in spacious classrooms with long, sleek, black countertops equipped with sinks and glass jets (and Bunsen burners!).<br /><br />We covered topics ranging from asteroids to zygotes. It was short on ecosystems, habitats, and animals, but otherwise absolutely, smashingly splendid.<br /><br />Since those heady days (plus a few marvelous science classes in college, a training program to become a zoo docent, and a course for teachers of science taught at a local university), my acquaintance with science education lies mainly in writing books and articles on science topics for children, parents, and teachers.<br /><br />Oh, that and helping my child with the dreaded trifold boards at science fairs.<br /><br /><table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; margin-left: 1em; text-align: right;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://4.bp.blogspot.com/-yzcUfFPWRGs/V4UX1wMTnDI/AAAAAAAAJEA/73-Uq9JF_5QY3-_fDlWq_W9VuEhtrxqwgCLcB/s1600/science%2Bfair.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="400" src="https://4.bp.blogspot.com/-yzcUfFPWRGs/V4UX1wMTnDI/AAAAAAAAJEA/73-Uq9JF_5QY3-_fDlWq_W9VuEhtrxqwgCLcB/s400/science%2Bfair.jpg" width="325" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i><a href="https://commons.wikimedia.org/wiki/File:Taimi_Toffer_Anderson_(1937-_),_1956_(4406433642).jpg">Wiki commons photo</a></i></td></tr></tbody></table>Watching my child learn science at school was an eye-opener, especially as I became curious about how science has been taught at the elementary level over the past hundred years or so.<br /><br />If it barely ranked as a subject in my elementary school--a good public school on Long Island in a community packed with Grumman engineers--how was it treated in earlier decades?<br /><br />For my daughter, science existed as a distinct school subject from her earliest elementary years. I still have one of her dedicated science notebooks buried around here in a box somewhere. I recall seeing little aquariums and terrariums sitting in the center of a cluster of kindergarten desks.<br /><br />Nonfiction books are thriving in the elementary classroom. Kids are becoming citizen scientists. Science is properly part and parcel of their education and their lives.<br /><br />Now, STEM (Science, Technology, Engineering, and Mathematics) is the acronym of the day. With a daughter who's going into a technical vocational field, I'm pleased that kids are learning how science applies to everyday life and that it's not some arcane realm of little relevance to their lives.<br /><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://2.bp.blogspot.com/-Y8UGkEM5Yow/V4UZGRw1WtI/AAAAAAAAJEM/Xm9ZF0f69MUEJ61vyv0ZXqvrmttT2GzXACLcB/s1600/prang%2Bnatural%2Bhistory.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="400" src="https://2.bp.blogspot.com/-Y8UGkEM5Yow/V4UZGRw1WtI/AAAAAAAAJEM/Xm9ZF0f69MUEJ61vyv0ZXqvrmttT2GzXACLcB/s400/prang%2Bnatural%2Bhistory.jpg" width="266" /></a></div>But as a reader and writer with a great fondness for natural-history writing of the past that reveled in the sheer wonder of nature, I sometimes wonder if perhaps we might err too much on the side of emphasizing science's utility. As if we're hustling kids to hurry up and get past that fascinating mammoth diorama on the field trip because we have to catch the bus.<br /><br />I don't know if this concern has any validity. I only started wondering about it several years ago as my child entered high school. We visited the school during an open-house event and marveled at the lab rooms, the equipment, the artifacts. We wished we were students again as we heard about the biotech and maritime academies.<br /><br />But when we asked one teacher about the biotech program, he resolutely refused to answer specific questions.<br /><br />Arms crossed, looking across the room without making eye contact, he maintained that he taught science and taught kids to be interested in and thrilled by science. He was implicitly telling us that he wasn't a big fan of teaching science only as something you do as a career step.<br /><br />So my goal now is not only to learn more about how science was taught to elementary school kids in the past, but also to find out more about what teachers think of today's focus.<br /><br />Which means I have two-thirds of my trifold board started!<br /><br /><i>(This is Part 1 of an "I'm not sure how many parts there will be" series, but I can tell you that I have picked up some interesting old science textbooks at thrift stores and that there are also some Very Funny Bits in some of them, so please stay tuned.)</i><br /><br /></div>Christina Wilsdonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02472802098557216513noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3981659012070333472.post-19899016549035001632016-06-17T18:20:00.001-07:002016-06-17T20:26:31.563-07:00<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">Downsizing. Decluttering. Uncluttering. Minimizing. Sorting. Whatever you want to call it, we're doing a lot of lately. (We've decided to call it streamlining, because that sounds cooler and more forward-moving than the other terms and suggests that we're progressive and might even distract the eye from all the stuff still piled up or packed in totes.)<br /><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div><a href="https://3.bp.blogspot.com/-FPK0CICjbU4/V2SgZ9q53vI/AAAAAAAAJB8/xI1FvjNbw7wwIamiUNVdkqu8BrWiZUX1ACLcB/s1600/clutter.png" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="381" src="https://3.bp.blogspot.com/-FPK0CICjbU4/V2SgZ9q53vI/AAAAAAAAJB8/xI1FvjNbw7wwIamiUNVdkqu8BrWiZUX1ACLcB/s400/clutter.png" width="400" /></a><br />This de-accessioning is partly due to winnowing my parents' possessions (55+ years of accumulated objects plus the half-century of items gathered by their parents and other relatives) ever since my father's death and my mother's move into assisted living.<br /><br />The other part of the "partly" is our move into a smaller house.<br />I think we'd easily halve our possessions if we got rid of all our books, which I don't wish to do en masse, but I will grudgingly part with one or two...here and there...now and then. This small effort is continually undone by bringing fresh books into the house.<br /><br /><br />So, bit by bit, we open up a few square inches of space at a time.<br /><br />I eked out a couple of inches this past week and forestalled occupation by future objects by taking an hour to peruse a binder full of craft pages torn from magazines. These were crafts that, presumably, I was going to create as part of hosting lovely birthday parties for my daughter, or inviting loads of friends over to my house for a party or meal, or giving beautiful gifts to loved ones, or simply to turn my house into a creative and inviting place for one and all.<br /><br />I do not think I recognize the person who tore out all these instructions for would-be crafts. I do not think I share her ambition and certainly don't have the time she apparently thought she had. Or would have someday.<br /><br />At any rate, I am about to send a lot of instructions into the recycle bin, and can report that the following items will never be produced by This Particular Craftswoman:<br /><br /><br /><ul style="text-align: left;"><li>wire card holders formed out of radio wire</li><li>bookends made out of bricks</li><li>a bee-and-blossom toy constructed from a toilet-paper tube and pink foam</li><li>sea urchins made out of cut-up foam carpet padding</li><li>Yo-yos made out of knit gloves</li><li>A castle-shaped pencil holder thingy made of foam vegetable trays, foam insulation, and other stuff</li><li>Christmas wreath made out of 100 plastic sandwich bags</li><li>Dot-painted china</li><li>Hand-quilled greeting cards</li><li>Witch faces made out of pears and Oreos</li><li>Drawer knobs made out of polymer clay</li><li>Spiders made out of soldering wire and copper pot scrubbers</li><li>memory boxes made out of tissue boxes</li><li>Party invitations made out of old 45s</li><li>Tree branch hat racks</li></ul><br /><br />Among the articles I'm tossing for being (a) out of date, (b) pointless, as in "if I haven't taught my kid about this by the time she's graduated high school, there's no point, really, is there?", or (c) "Are you freaking kidding?" are these:<br /><br /><ul style="text-align: left;"><li>An article about family computing that's subheaded "Digital cameras are fast, versatile, easy to use--and cost a bundle. Is your family ready to forgo film?"&nbsp;</li></ul><ul style="text-align: left;"><li>An article about when to teach your child safety skills</li></ul><ul style="text-align: left;"><li>An article called "It's Easy to Decorate a Goblet!"</li></ul><ul style="text-align: left;"><li>A recipe entitled "Too Busy to Bake? Create a Pull-Apart Tower of Fun with Doughnut Holes and Frosting in No Time at All"</li></ul><ul style="text-align: left;"><li>A recipe for "Hairy Daddy Longlegs Cupcakes"</li></ul><ul style="text-align: left;"><li>Craft instructions called "How We Learned to Stop Worrying and Love the Copy Center"</li></ul><br />Sadly, all of this effort may be canceled out by having purchased a copy of "Adventures in Pompomland."<br /><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://2.bp.blogspot.com/-6r1fgMGW32s/V2Sh4k0eZ5I/AAAAAAAAJCM/7qepqH1E1JE4cncas22a5aFMvMBYcV5oQCLcB/s1600/pompoms.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://2.bp.blogspot.com/-6r1fgMGW32s/V2Sh4k0eZ5I/AAAAAAAAJCM/7qepqH1E1JE4cncas22a5aFMvMBYcV5oQCLcB/s1600/pompoms.jpg" /></a></div><br /><br /><br /><br /></div>Christina Wilsdonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02472802098557216513noreply@blogger.com7tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3981659012070333472.post-64762291470234314292016-05-17T16:13:00.000-07:002016-05-17T20:02:48.768-07:00Django and Junco<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">Sometimes our cat Django gives us the slip and darts outside, even though I have lectured him many times about why it's important that cats be kept indoors. He dives under the deck before I can grab him, shouting over his shoulder that he doesn't care if I want to keep birds safe. He just wants to go eat grass and drink filthy water out of a flowerpot.<br /><br /><table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; margin-left: 1em; text-align: right;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-ErEGvvceimQ/VzukDAvwGdI/AAAAAAAAJAA/KTX1wdwdqzEuAEO9cO5baA8DMieQ4jVhwCLcB/s1600/junco.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="400" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-ErEGvvceimQ/VzukDAvwGdI/AAAAAAAAJAA/KTX1wdwdqzEuAEO9cO5baA8DMieQ4jVhwCLcB/s400/junco.jpg" width="302" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i>Male junco on feeder pole in our yard.</i></td></tr></tbody></table>But payback comes in the form of a fierce pair of juncos nesting somewhere in the yard. As soon as Django creeps out from under the deck, the two little birds perch above him and denounce him loudly. <i>Chip! Chit! Chit! </i>they scold, and he flattens to the ground, as much as an 18-pound cat can flatten himself. His ears stick out sideways. His gratitude, when I slide open the door, is immense, and he flees from the tirade to the safety of the back of the sofa.<br /><br />Juncos are such exceedingly common birds that most people who pay scant attention to birds tend to lump them in with all the other little brown or gray things with wings that flit about the yard. They aren't really far off the mark in so doing--juncos are, after all, a kind of sparrow, and it's hard to get more common than a sparrow. (Well, depending on what sparrow you're talking about, that is.)<br /><br />But I'd never seen one before I moved to the Northwest from the east coast more than 25 years ago. I quickly learned that this little gray and brown bird with the black executioner's hood was an Oregon junco--one of the many races of the species known as the Dark-eyed Junco,&nbsp;<i>Junco hyemalis.</i><br /><br />Actually, it would have been remarkable if I'd seen an Oregon junco on Long Island in New York; it's a western bird, found only casually in the East. What I would've seen back east was another race, the slate-colored junco. ("Casual" in birding doesn't mean that the bird is found in jeans and a tee-shirt leaning nonchalantly against a wall. It means "Species not recorded annually in the ABA [American Birding Association] Checklist Area, but with six or more total records—including three or more in the past 30 years—reflecting some pattern of occurrence." In other words, slim pickins.)<br /><br />Dark-eyed juncos live year-round in many parts of the West, the Appalachians, and some northern states. In winter, they spill out to fill the rest of the country. This migratory habit earned them the common name of "snowbird." In warm states, the term would imply they're escaping winter's cold, but people in chillier states think of them as sticking around or arriving with the snow.<br /><br />Juncos "drift into our gardens when snowy weather comes and when days are dark with rain, and winds blow cold," writes Francis Staver Twining in her book <i>Bird-Watching in the West</i> (1931). "I am always glad when the juncos come dancing in."<br /><br /><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-nau4DrNqxGE/Vzu5pCDKGJI/AAAAAAAAJAk/VHFNyQuYFsY_c0YIvGP3Qp69FwAvoI6RwCLcB/s1600/junco%2BUSFWS.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="420" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-nau4DrNqxGE/Vzu5pCDKGJI/AAAAAAAAJAk/VHFNyQuYFsY_c0YIvGP3Qp69FwAvoI6RwCLcB/s640/junco%2BUSFWS.jpg" width="640" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i>Male Oregon Junco, USFWS photo</i></td></tr></tbody></table><br /><div style="text-align: left;"></div>The juncos in our winter garden join finches, sparrows, towhees, and chickadees at our feeder. Though they're ground birds, they will also struggle to snatch seeds directly from the feeder, flapping furiously as they try to cling to its sides with one foot and grab something before they lose their balance.<br /><br />A junco's crisp markings stand out nicely in a snowy scene. The Oregon junco male's head is jet black, and his gray-brown wings fold neatly to form lapels on his russet sides. The female has much the same coloring but in paler shades. Both have white feathers on either side of their tails.<br /><br />These white tail feathers serve many purposes. If threatened, juncos flare their tails as they fly away so the white feathers can signal an alarm to other juncos, in the same way that a raised white tail signals alarm in a fleeing deer. At the same time, the flash of white tells a predator, "I see you, you missed your chance, you've been spotted, hunt something else." Observers have also seen juncos flaring their tails to threaten other birds, including other species, in crowded feeding conditions on the ground.<br /><br /><table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-R0BmOix5Rqo/VzukpZ-pBwI/AAAAAAAAJAI/Ai-2udBpfZQTZzbkPrILydUNsVl0COiywCLcB/s1600/junco%2B2.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="262" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-R0BmOix5Rqo/VzukpZ-pBwI/AAAAAAAAJAI/Ai-2udBpfZQTZzbkPrILydUNsVl0COiywCLcB/s400/junco%2B2.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i>Female junco, Marymoor State Park</i></td></tr></tbody></table>In courtship, male juncos flare their tails to show off the white feathers as they seek to win over a female. Scientists have found that birds receiving better nourishment grow feathers with bigger white patches than birds eating merely a subsistence diet. If so, it may be that bigger white patches = more pugnacious bird = female selection pressure on male juncos to have hunky white tail feathers.<br /><br />Another study seems to show that suburban juncos have less white in their tails than rural birds; the speculation is that there is less predation and competition in suburbia, and so female selection pressure is leaning more toward having a mellow dad around to help with household chores than an aggressive warrior.<br /><br />Just recently, when Django the Cat made an escape and I responded to the junco's angry cheeps by stepping outside to fetch him, I nearly trod on a male junco apparently leading him up the steps by scrabbling along the deck with his tail flared, much like a killdeer feigning a broken wing. I'd heard that the white tail feathers might also entice a predator into going after the junco's tail instead of its vital head and body, so it's not such a leap to imagine the junco might likewise use its white feathers to lure a predator away from its young.<br /><br /><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-GUERZAM92y8/Vzuk6NB8nvI/AAAAAAAAJAQ/5FDwm_BZh5UEwfCK4kR6PI16Y-Ks8OsjACLcB/s1600/Junco%2Baudubon.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="640" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-GUERZAM92y8/Vzuk6NB8nvI/AAAAAAAAJAQ/5FDwm_BZh5UEwfCK4kR6PI16Y-Ks8OsjACLcB/s640/Junco%2Baudubon.jpg" width="412" /></a>The white tail feathers, the variety in coloration, and much more make the humble junco "a rockstar study organism" for scientists. These scrappy little birds have been used in studies focusing on evolution, speciation, migration, ecology, and other topics. There's even a movie about them that can be downloaded or ordered and used in schools, museums, and other venues (find it <a href="http://juncoproject.org/videos/download-instructions/">here</a>).<br /><br />I poked around in a few old bird books to see if I could find some fascinating tidbit about these backyard birds, but without much luck.<br /><br />My old reliable <i>Birds of California</i> by William Dawson devotes much of its account to the parsing of junco species and races. <i>The Audubon Society Encyclopedia of North American Birds</i> gives workmanlike accounts of each race (with an odd note in the Oregon's write-up: "Juncos attracted to warmth of caves in Yellowstone have died there from gases").<br /><br />John James Audubon, however, had lots to say about juncos, which he was glad to see in winter when they migrated into Louisiana.<br /><br />According to him, the junco was apparently quite well known among people in the mid-1800s:<br /><blockquote class="tr_bq">So gentle and tame does it become on the least approach of hard weather, that it forms, as it were, a companion to every child. Indeed, there is not an individual in the Union who does not know the little Snow-bird, which, in America, is cherished as the Robin is in Europe.&nbsp;</blockquote>And his description of its behavior tells you exactly why a junco can put the fear of God into a fat housecat:<br /><blockquote class="tr_bq">Although the Snow-Birds live in little families, consisting of twenty, thirty, or more individuals, they seem always inclined to keep up a certain degree of etiquette among themselves, and will not suffer one of their kind, or indeed any other bird, to come into immediate contact with them. To prevent intrusions of this kind, when a stranger comes too near, their little bills are instantly opened, their wings are extended, their eyes are seen to sparkle, and they emit a repelling sound peculiar to themselves on such occasions.</blockquote>Our resident juncos are currently spending a lot of time emitting repelling sounds, because they even shout at the cat when he's indoors if they spy him through the glass sliding doors. Meanwhile, the rufous hummingbird will divebomb the male junco if he happens to be sitting too close to the nectar feeder. Which makes the <i>other </i>cat, Pebble, utter that weird chittering noise cats make when they gaze at birds from a window. Which &nbsp;makes the dog come in to see what's going on. It's a busy season, springtime is.<br /><br /><br /></div>Christina Wilsdonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02472802098557216513noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3981659012070333472.post-24701244826173484552016-05-06T13:11:00.001-07:002016-05-06T13:11:53.080-07:00A Fling with Spring Bling, Part 2<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">A friend requested "more, please!" after my last posting about life reasserting itself in the garden upon the arrival of spring (this one's for you, JB ;) and now that we're halfway through the season, life has certainly reasserted itself with a vengeance.<br /><br />A bamboo grew four feet tall in one week and other plants are working hard to keep pace. The hummingbirds consume the contents of the nectar feeder faster than my daughter's weighty truck swallows gasoline. Chickadees snatch every bit of fluff shed by the dog. Buttercups threaten to engulf the house.<br /><br />Here's a few pix. Planning to spend as much time this weekend in the garden as possible, as long as the sun's out!<br /><br /><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://3.bp.blogspot.com/-35lo-ioIJfU/Vyz4kYoY6QI/AAAAAAAAI-M/ui_MIyLtNIIodyxQxUg_Mj34gizCYISEgCLcB/s1600/2016%2BMay%2BFlowers%2B001.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="266" src="https://3.bp.blogspot.com/-35lo-ioIJfU/Vyz4kYoY6QI/AAAAAAAAI-M/ui_MIyLtNIIodyxQxUg_Mj34gizCYISEgCLcB/s400/2016%2BMay%2BFlowers%2B001.JPG" width="400" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><b>Geranium&nbsp;</b></td></tr></tbody></table><br /><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://4.bp.blogspot.com/-EyRFY32nCKE/Vyz4js5b0qI/AAAAAAAAI-I/S9HozOgQn4IN4gp_8htmuIh-ZhfbMVd7QCLcB/s1600/2016%2BMay%2BFlowers%2B005.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="266" src="https://4.bp.blogspot.com/-EyRFY32nCKE/Vyz4js5b0qI/AAAAAAAAI-I/S9HozOgQn4IN4gp_8htmuIh-ZhfbMVd7QCLcB/s400/2016%2BMay%2BFlowers%2B005.JPG" width="400" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Wild columbine, or at least the back of one. These beautiful little flowers<br />bashfully hold their heads down and don't look up til the last minute.</td></tr></tbody></table><br /><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-1doEbFfalFQ/Vyz4jSleylI/AAAAAAAAI-E/d1-qhrsZekAuK-SFuPTEHZaJpmo0xi22wCLcB/s1600/2016%2BMay%2BFlowers%2B008.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="640" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-1doEbFfalFQ/Vyz4jSleylI/AAAAAAAAI-E/d1-qhrsZekAuK-SFuPTEHZaJpmo0xi22wCLcB/s640/2016%2BMay%2BFlowers%2B008.JPG" width="426" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><b>Leafhopper trekking down a columbine stem</b></td></tr></tbody></table><br /><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://2.bp.blogspot.com/-07YjgCskG2A/Vyz4nLihiiI/AAAAAAAAI-U/17iqnxhjK_wIguZsrV9opG0X0czMzCXXACLcB/s1600/2016%2BMay%2BFlowers%2B013.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="266" src="https://2.bp.blogspot.com/-07YjgCskG2A/Vyz4nLihiiI/AAAAAAAAI-U/17iqnxhjK_wIguZsrV9opG0X0czMzCXXACLcB/s400/2016%2BMay%2BFlowers%2B013.JPG" width="400" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The leaves of a heuchera get all the glory, but their flowers are pretty cool, too.</td></tr></tbody></table><br /><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-MVjflZ1IdzM/Vyz4pE86B-I/AAAAAAAAI-Y/hmwW-O_3fGUEWnyc-4b6jJOIT5tmZmxMgCLcB/s1600/2016%2BMay%2BFlowers%2B014.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="400" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-MVjflZ1IdzM/Vyz4pE86B-I/AAAAAAAAI-Y/hmwW-O_3fGUEWnyc-4b6jJOIT5tmZmxMgCLcB/s400/2016%2BMay%2BFlowers%2B014.JPG" width="265" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><b>Bugleweed</b></td></tr></tbody></table><br /><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-HdZHIhP0BgM/Vyz4prVL46I/AAAAAAAAI-c/mhfCQqUPgOElnnPB6oZuldKh_z31PZbLACLcB/s1600/2016%2BMay%2BFlowers%2B015.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="400" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-HdZHIhP0BgM/Vyz4prVL46I/AAAAAAAAI-c/mhfCQqUPgOElnnPB6oZuldKh_z31PZbLACLcB/s400/2016%2BMay%2BFlowers%2B015.JPG" width="266" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Always love pansy faces! So cheerful.</td></tr></tbody></table><br /><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-97R86yTjOB4/Vyz4q9BHQII/AAAAAAAAI-g/1XGu-f5-nR8gm-69HJ1gJPjkU5DFAEFAQCLcB/s1600/2016%2BMay%2BFlowers%2B018.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="265" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-97R86yTjOB4/Vyz4q9BHQII/AAAAAAAAI-g/1XGu-f5-nR8gm-69HJ1gJPjkU5DFAEFAQCLcB/s400/2016%2BMay%2BFlowers%2B018.JPG" width="400" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><b>Interior of geum</b></td></tr></tbody></table><br /><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://3.bp.blogspot.com/-Oc4989950Ok/Vyz4uV8BY9I/AAAAAAAAI-o/TOSdWCIl8kc-2vKjpTRP63YI32vzyC-3wCLcB/s1600/2016%2BMay%2BFlowers%2B021.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="426" src="https://3.bp.blogspot.com/-Oc4989950Ok/Vyz4uV8BY9I/AAAAAAAAI-o/TOSdWCIl8kc-2vKjpTRP63YI32vzyC-3wCLcB/s640/2016%2BMay%2BFlowers%2B021.JPG" width="640" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><b>Dizzying fern</b></td></tr></tbody></table><br /><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://2.bp.blogspot.com/-laAFG9vXZls/Vyz4uYkq6bI/AAAAAAAAI-s/hrMlbk9uVlwRc6WsAv9DdJb9JJAc6hH0ACLcB/s1600/2016%2BMay%2BFlowers%2B022.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="400" src="https://2.bp.blogspot.com/-laAFG9vXZls/Vyz4uYkq6bI/AAAAAAAAI-s/hrMlbk9uVlwRc6WsAv9DdJb9JJAc6hH0ACLcB/s400/2016%2BMay%2BFlowers%2B022.JPG" width="266" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><b>Forget-me-nots</b></td></tr></tbody></table><br /><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://3.bp.blogspot.com/-sKtp98jHqkc/Vyz4uGAlQvI/AAAAAAAAI-k/efxoe9hs95wXFtuTF418mderW-PvYhy8wCLcB/s1600/2016%2BMay%2BFlowers%2B025.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="266" src="https://3.bp.blogspot.com/-sKtp98jHqkc/Vyz4uGAlQvI/AAAAAAAAI-k/efxoe9hs95wXFtuTF418mderW-PvYhy8wCLcB/s400/2016%2BMay%2BFlowers%2B025.JPG" width="400" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Hard to capture maple flowers as it was breezy. They always<br />remind me of shooting stars.</td></tr></tbody></table><br /><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://3.bp.blogspot.com/--LAdti7gne0/Vyz4wPfU8vI/AAAAAAAAI-w/v2reZoBzDY058JZ6sWtWrEe2Y0UZoY6IwCLcB/s1600/2016%2BMay%2BFlowers%2B030.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="426" src="https://3.bp.blogspot.com/--LAdti7gne0/Vyz4wPfU8vI/AAAAAAAAI-w/v2reZoBzDY058JZ6sWtWrEe2Y0UZoY6IwCLcB/s640/2016%2BMay%2BFlowers%2B030.JPG" width="640" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><b>Interior of rhododendron flower</b></td></tr></tbody></table><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://2.bp.blogspot.com/-pYvBbEZDpGI/Vyz4zkgk86I/AAAAAAAAI-4/QboxLIvs--g4dmL9Wj5JH4RMvHzjmg45wCLcB/s1600/2016%2BMay%2BFlowers%2B032.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="266" src="https://2.bp.blogspot.com/-pYvBbEZDpGI/Vyz4zkgk86I/AAAAAAAAI-4/QboxLIvs--g4dmL9Wj5JH4RMvHzjmg45wCLcB/s400/2016%2BMay%2BFlowers%2B032.JPG" width="400" /></a></div><br /><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://4.bp.blogspot.com/-sIuZHJTM5rA/Vyz4zX3VwNI/AAAAAAAAI-0/y9cdP-m6qYYxA5R1-mNMzcT7Njfnog5YACLcB/s1600/2016%2BMay%2BFlowers%2B036.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="640" src="https://4.bp.blogspot.com/-sIuZHJTM5rA/Vyz4zX3VwNI/AAAAAAAAI-0/y9cdP-m6qYYxA5R1-mNMzcT7Njfnog5YACLcB/s640/2016%2BMay%2BFlowers%2B036.JPG" width="426" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><b>Interior of rhododendron</b></td></tr></tbody></table><br /><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://4.bp.blogspot.com/-7cyC5yAl9Hw/Vyz40XNUIAI/AAAAAAAAI-8/D6fbsipitUgISKHtZPH_6kOIbBf_3D5xACLcB/s1600/2016%2BMay%2BFlowers%2B037.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="266" src="https://4.bp.blogspot.com/-7cyC5yAl9Hw/Vyz40XNUIAI/AAAAAAAAI-8/D6fbsipitUgISKHtZPH_6kOIbBf_3D5xACLcB/s400/2016%2BMay%2BFlowers%2B037.JPG" width="400" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><b>Cottonwood-seed snowdrift</b></td></tr></tbody></table><br /></div>Christina Wilsdonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02472802098557216513noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3981659012070333472.post-62383054153805197332016-03-10T13:06:00.002-08:002016-03-10T13:06:51.040-08:00Just a Little Spring Bling<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">All in all it was a pretty mild winter, but it's still nice to be bidding it farewell and welcoming the first signs of spring.<br /><br />Mornings now ring with the songs of Pacific wrens, Bewick's wrens, song sparrows, and varied thrushes, with percussion added by the flickers drumming on trees, streetlights, and metal gutters.<br /><br />I went out to poke around in the garden to see what it's been up to since I bothered much about it late last fall.<br /><br /><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://4.bp.blogspot.com/-R40I3aBmyJg/VuHeQUXFkEI/AAAAAAAAI5s/kfKcAsCqBIY/s1600/2016%2BSpring%2B008.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="266" src="https://4.bp.blogspot.com/-R40I3aBmyJg/VuHeQUXFkEI/AAAAAAAAI5s/kfKcAsCqBIY/s400/2016%2BSpring%2B008.JPG" width="400" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Periwinkles are the first fireworks to bring a burst of color.</td></tr></tbody></table><br /><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://2.bp.blogspot.com/-qVVNMjpb1J0/VuHeQrqo0_I/AAAAAAAAI50/d9V1VzvkUWg/s1600/2016%2BSpring%2B009.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="266" src="https://2.bp.blogspot.com/-qVVNMjpb1J0/VuHeQrqo0_I/AAAAAAAAI50/d9V1VzvkUWg/s400/2016%2BSpring%2B009.JPG" width="400" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Flower buds on viburnum, waiting to unfurl.</td></tr></tbody></table><br /><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://4.bp.blogspot.com/-NXVBy1389Is/VuHeQY_tlHI/AAAAAAAAI5w/I79bA_uBRls/s1600/2016%2BSpring%2B010.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="266" src="https://4.bp.blogspot.com/-NXVBy1389Is/VuHeQY_tlHI/AAAAAAAAI5w/I79bA_uBRls/s400/2016%2BSpring%2B010.JPG" width="400" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">A trio of mushrooms. Couldn't quite catch the curly woolly-lamb<br />look of their stalks because their whiteness blinded my camera.</td></tr></tbody></table><br /><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/--3Ybj-ih-vY/VuHeTZ8v4DI/AAAAAAAAI54/Uwq7tIRltbM/s1600/2016%2BSpring%2B013.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="266" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/--3Ybj-ih-vY/VuHeTZ8v4DI/AAAAAAAAI54/Uwq7tIRltbM/s400/2016%2BSpring%2B013.JPG" width="400" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Somebody was nesting up in the magnolia last year!</td></tr></tbody></table><br /><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://2.bp.blogspot.com/-z0iz4pU715k/VuHeTgAkM8I/AAAAAAAAI58/rugX_f-CFBo/s1600/2016%2BSpring%2B017.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="266" src="https://2.bp.blogspot.com/-z0iz4pU715k/VuHeTgAkM8I/AAAAAAAAI58/rugX_f-CFBo/s400/2016%2BSpring%2B017.JPG" width="400" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Sedum rain saucer</td></tr></tbody></table>&nbsp;<br /><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-fpE3rsDOVNQ/VuHeVUoTM3I/AAAAAAAAI6E/oBn7l6ueNII/s1600/2016%2BSpring%2B020.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="266" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-fpE3rsDOVNQ/VuHeVUoTM3I/AAAAAAAAI6E/oBn7l6ueNII/s400/2016%2BSpring%2B020.JPG" width="400" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Hellebore flower</td></tr></tbody></table><br /><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-fSkkKsPl9HI/VuHeX2b-_pI/AAAAAAAAI6I/lFyoC76uObY/s1600/2016%2BSpring%2B021.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="266" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-fSkkKsPl9HI/VuHeX2b-_pI/AAAAAAAAI6I/lFyoC76uObY/s400/2016%2BSpring%2B021.JPG" width="400" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The earthworms are still sleepy and quite grumpy about being disturbed.</td></tr></tbody></table><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div><br /><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-nU1ThlOf6Mk/VuHeZ5QG76I/AAAAAAAAI6Q/iNBnF_CiZPg/s1600/2016%2BSpring%2B034.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="266" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-nU1ThlOf6Mk/VuHeZ5QG76I/AAAAAAAAI6Q/iNBnF_CiZPg/s400/2016%2BSpring%2B034.JPG" width="400" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Miniature daffodils are wide awake and honking.</td></tr></tbody></table><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div><br /><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://4.bp.blogspot.com/-PfNO-nuarzE/VuHecCRzReI/AAAAAAAAI6U/uXXnhnVi84M/s1600/2016%2BSpring%2B036.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="400" src="https://4.bp.blogspot.com/-PfNO-nuarzE/VuHecCRzReI/AAAAAAAAI6U/uXXnhnVi84M/s400/2016%2BSpring%2B036.JPG" width="266" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Rhubarb is growing by leaps and bounds and will<br />be ready for harvest within weeks. Pie!</td></tr></tbody></table><br /><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-eHBJqlmE_k4/VuHec_jr91I/AAAAAAAAI6c/EQpEQIpkLRg/s1600/2016%2BSpring%2B037.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="400" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-eHBJqlmE_k4/VuHec_jr91I/AAAAAAAAI6c/EQpEQIpkLRg/s400/2016%2BSpring%2B037.JPG" width="266" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The first periwinkle.</td></tr></tbody></table><br /><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://3.bp.blogspot.com/-39avA3cQAic/VuHeevGmBDI/AAAAAAAAI6g/KdjYkMg2K7M/s1600/2016%2BSpring%2B039.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="266" src="https://3.bp.blogspot.com/-39avA3cQAic/VuHeevGmBDI/AAAAAAAAI6g/KdjYkMg2K7M/s400/2016%2BSpring%2B039.JPG" width="400" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Drops on a tulip leaf</td></tr></tbody></table><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div><br /><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-kJgBDy3cWsU/VuHeh_I8R1I/AAAAAAAAI6o/kdr2FY3t6u8/s1600/2016%2BSpring%2B046.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="266" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-kJgBDy3cWsU/VuHeh_I8R1I/AAAAAAAAI6o/kdr2FY3t6u8/s400/2016%2BSpring%2B046.JPG" width="400" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Evidence that the red-naped sapsucker has been drilling in our plum tree.</td></tr></tbody></table><br /><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-W0UdMO00R6o/VuHehv0GCJI/AAAAAAAAI6k/HsCG_j5MxJM/s1600/2016%2BSpring%2B049.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="400" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-W0UdMO00R6o/VuHehv0GCJI/AAAAAAAAI6k/HsCG_j5MxJM/s400/2016%2BSpring%2B049.JPG" width="266" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Redtwig dogwood leaves serenely folded.</td></tr></tbody></table><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div><br /><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://2.bp.blogspot.com/-P_0YqGPX9sM/VuHelHVnW5I/AAAAAAAAI6w/KxB-5U7BeHg/s1600/2016%2BSpring%2B055.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="266" src="https://2.bp.blogspot.com/-P_0YqGPX9sM/VuHelHVnW5I/AAAAAAAAI6w/KxB-5U7BeHg/s400/2016%2BSpring%2B055.JPG" width="400" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Huckleberry blossom</td></tr></tbody></table><br /><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://3.bp.blogspot.com/-o-7xKi4-e_U/VuHeli7tSYI/AAAAAAAAI64/0VhvwsoCAXQ/s1600/2016%2BSpring%2B056.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="266" src="https://3.bp.blogspot.com/-o-7xKi4-e_U/VuHeli7tSYI/AAAAAAAAI64/0VhvwsoCAXQ/s400/2016%2BSpring%2B056.JPG" width="400" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Branches that snapped and fell from on high over the winter bear<br />loads of fungi and lichen that are quite beautiful.</td></tr></tbody></table><br /><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://3.bp.blogspot.com/-t6ahuPIE0-g/VuHem40pj5I/AAAAAAAAI68/hes11uGTViI/s1600/2016%2BSpring%2B057.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="266" src="https://3.bp.blogspot.com/-t6ahuPIE0-g/VuHem40pj5I/AAAAAAAAI68/hes11uGTViI/s400/2016%2BSpring%2B057.JPG" width="400" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Moss! Acres of moss! Sit still too long and you, too, can be covered with it.</td></tr></tbody></table><br /></div>Christina Wilsdonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02472802098557216513noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3981659012070333472.post-32107740237188623162016-02-03T11:46:00.000-08:002016-02-03T11:59:11.434-08:00A Bird in the Hand<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on"><table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; margin-left: 1em; text-align: right;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-ebf9rgOvo_o/VrJO7fw5iVI/AAAAAAAAI2A/Zi5WHuHohpQ/s1600/Birds%2Bmuseum%2Bfeb%2B1%2B067.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="266" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-ebf9rgOvo_o/VrJO7fw5iVI/AAAAAAAAI2A/Zi5WHuHohpQ/s400/Birds%2Bmuseum%2Bfeb%2B1%2B067.JPG" width="400" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i>Pacific Wren (formerly Winter Wren)</i></td></tr></tbody></table>In recent weeks I've had the privilege of going behind the scenes at a museum to look at birds close-up in the form of study skins.<br /><br />Poring over stuffed, dead birds might not sound like everybody's idea of a good time, but for birders it offers an excellent opportunity to observe details and compare and contrast species in a way you never get to do in the field, where birds often appear as silhouetted blobs on a brightly lit sky, a streaky dash amid branches, or a tiny speck beyond the reach of your binoculars.<br /><br /><a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-K7Nj1O-Dgf8/VrJPWeL6saI/AAAAAAAAI2E/NRpEemueoFU/s1600/2015%2BDecember%2B040.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="266" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-K7Nj1O-Dgf8/VrJPWeL6saI/AAAAAAAAI2E/NRpEemueoFU/s400/2015%2BDecember%2B040.JPG" width="400" /></a>A study skin is exactly what it sounds like: a bird skin complete with feathers, beak, and legs that's been stripped of all flesh and stuffed so that it can be measured and examined. The stuffing doesn't attempt to recreate the bird's form in life, as taxidermy does.<br /><br />(For more information about preparing study skins, as well as some points of view on collecting birds, check out this <a href="http://ebird.org/content/ybn/news/preserving-past-and-present-in-a-drawer-specimen-preparation/">ebird page</a>.)<br /><br /><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-hgZ2-3RgclA/VrJPggEIjuI/AAAAAAAAI2I/niPqzNQoaPM/s1600/2015%2BDecember%2B038.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-hgZ2-3RgclA/VrJPggEIjuI/AAAAAAAAI2I/niPqzNQoaPM/s320/2015%2BDecember%2B038.JPG" width="212" /></a>Sometimes wings are prepared separately from the study skins so they can be displayed fanned out, making individual flight feathers easy to see. A study skin wouldn't last very long if its wings were constantly being unfolded. The wings are actually threaded in place to prevent them from being spread.<br /><br />A museum's collection of study skins includes the remains of many birds who were found dead and donated for preparation. (I once had a bushtit stored in my freezer for years after finding it newly dead on the sidewalk outside my house with this aim in mind.)<br /><br />It also includes birds deliberately collected for study, though unlike the overzealous collectors in Audubon's time, today's scientists take legal and ethical considerations into account.<br /><br />Handling and studying the skins evokes many feelings: wistfulness and a twinge of sadness at the stillness of the birds and the brevity and evanescence of life; humility at the connection between now and then, as you hold a tiny bird collected by someone who lived a century before you; and awe at the magnificent beauty and variety of species.<br /><br /><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-zq_LcANQg_k/VrJQxsaujhI/AAAAAAAAI2U/vMkhbkPp4as/s1600/2015%2BDecember%2B044.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="266" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-zq_LcANQg_k/VrJQxsaujhI/AAAAAAAAI2U/vMkhbkPp4as/s400/2015%2BDecember%2B044.JPG" width="400" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Northern Flicker's exuberantly spotted breast</td></tr></tbody></table><br /><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-tGDgLwE6d54/VrJRie1y-HI/AAAAAAAAI2Y/9MhVCMvEcek/s1600/Birds%2Bmuseum%2Bfeb%2B1%2B021.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="400" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-tGDgLwE6d54/VrJRie1y-HI/AAAAAAAAI2Y/9MhVCMvEcek/s400/Birds%2Bmuseum%2Bfeb%2B1%2B021.JPG" width="266" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The impressive beak of an Evening Grosbeak</td></tr></tbody></table><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-VZ_s6Ji5pqo/VrJR2T74R7I/AAAAAAAAI2g/EcfzrBihYmg/s1600/Birds%2Bmuseum%2Bfeb%2B1%2B028.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="266" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-VZ_s6Ji5pqo/VrJR2T74R7I/AAAAAAAAI2g/EcfzrBihYmg/s400/Birds%2Bmuseum%2Bfeb%2B1%2B028.JPG" width="400" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The comets and stars on a Common Loon's back</td></tr></tbody></table><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-t2MABi7CSRo/VrJSIYoFFXI/AAAAAAAAI2k/0KUQieDNdiM/s1600/Birds%2Bmuseum%2Bfeb%2B1%2B050.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="266" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-t2MABi7CSRo/VrJSIYoFFXI/AAAAAAAAI2k/0KUQieDNdiM/s400/Birds%2Bmuseum%2Bfeb%2B1%2B050.JPG" width="400" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The useful field mark, the "butterbutt," of a Yellow-Rumped Warbler</td></tr></tbody></table><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-vQCB0CbIUfk/VrJSfo9zYkI/AAAAAAAAI2o/p2aWkFnFDTA/s1600/Birds%2Bmuseum%2Bfeb%2B1%2B041.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="266" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-vQCB0CbIUfk/VrJSfo9zYkI/AAAAAAAAI2o/p2aWkFnFDTA/s400/Birds%2Bmuseum%2Bfeb%2B1%2B041.JPG" width="400" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The tropical splendor of an American Redstart</td></tr></tbody></table><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-U3pROY2VJsc/VrJSwm-PkKI/AAAAAAAAI2s/W_NJCIOIfl4/s1600/2015%2BDecember%2B068.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="266" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-U3pROY2VJsc/VrJSwm-PkKI/AAAAAAAAI2s/W_NJCIOIfl4/s400/2015%2BDecember%2B068.JPG" width="400" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The odd, waxy tips on the secondary flight feathers of a Cedar Waxwing</td></tr></tbody></table><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-mHaFA0YZXXg/VrJUC4uLb0I/AAAAAAAAI28/2SW1wew_KmE/s1600/Birds%2Bmuseum%2Bfeb%2B1%2B060.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="266" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-mHaFA0YZXXg/VrJUC4uLb0I/AAAAAAAAI28/2SW1wew_KmE/s400/Birds%2Bmuseum%2Bfeb%2B1%2B060.JPG" width="400" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">A&nbsp;MacGillivray's Warbler collected in 1894. Holding it makes you pause<br />and reflect on both this little scrap of life that fluttered long before you<br />were born and the existence of the person who carefully penned<br />the information on its tag.</td></tr></tbody></table><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-mO6sgg0MI_E/VrJVoNFyoAI/AAAAAAAAI3I/XesJkqXuRag/s1600/Birds%2Bmuseum%2Bfeb%2B1%2B064.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="266" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-mO6sgg0MI_E/VrJVoNFyoAI/AAAAAAAAI3I/XesJkqXuRag/s400/Birds%2Bmuseum%2Bfeb%2B1%2B064.JPG" width="400" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Orange-crowned Warbler. The study skins of smaller birds&nbsp;really <br />demonstrate how much of a bird's volume consists of the life pulsing<br />in it. This is particularly true of the wrens, which resemble empty pen<br />cartridges in the drawer but appear much larger in life when they're<br />full of spunk and fury and scolding you from a branch.</td></tr></tbody></table><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-_dVAHUAhxlo/VrJWyboHftI/AAAAAAAAI3M/_2Nqi7wKixk/s1600/2015%2BDecember%2B053.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="266" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-_dVAHUAhxlo/VrJWyboHftI/AAAAAAAAI3M/_2Nqi7wKixk/s400/2015%2BDecember%2B053.JPG" width="400" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The formidable talons of a raptor (I believe they belong to a Great Horned Owl).</td></tr></tbody></table><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-mXz8v5_N9RA/VrJYzqrblII/AAAAAAAAI3g/uuVhj-Z-4cI/s1600/Birds%2Bmuseum%2Bfeb%2B1%2B059.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="425" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-mXz8v5_N9RA/VrJYzqrblII/AAAAAAAAI3g/uuVhj-Z-4cI/s640/Birds%2Bmuseum%2Bfeb%2B1%2B059.JPG" width="640" /></a></div><br /></div>Christina Wilsdonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02472802098557216513noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3981659012070333472.post-52820192273995907992016-01-22T13:04:00.001-08:002016-01-22T15:49:10.310-08:00Hello, Kitties: The Paws That Refreshes<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on"><a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-NpUanL6u1H4/VqKWJBTU7cI/AAAAAAAAIzc/Bm3_wgcjEls/s1600/cat%2Bin%2Bbox.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="400" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-NpUanL6u1H4/VqKWJBTU7cI/AAAAAAAAIzc/Bm3_wgcjEls/s400/cat%2Bin%2Bbox.jpg" width="276" /></a><i><span style="font-size: x-small;">*Warning: Here be cat puns. If you cannot make dreadful, labored, and timeworn puns in an article about a cat cafe, when can you?</span></i><br /><br />There's a new kit in town: it's Seattle's first cat cafe, <a href="https://seattlemeowtropolitan.com/">Seattle Meowtropolitan</a>, and it's located in Wallingford kittycorner to Archie McPhee's.<br /><br />I met two friends there for coffee on a rainy Thursday afternoon.<br /><br />Since moving to the suburbs, meeting friends for coffee is a rare event, unlike the reflex reaction automatic default it was in the city, where I couldn't step outside without tripping over the threshold of a coffee shop.<br /><br />So I would probably have driven for much more than an hour to meet friends for coffee even if the cafe was boasting a playroom full of death adders.<br /><br />At Seattle Meowtropolitan, ten dollars buys you a tasty coffee drink of your choice and 50 minutes in the cat room, which houses a dozen or more cats at a time.<br /><br />I ordered a Meowca. I didn't ask for an extra <i>chat</i>, but I'm sure you could. The purristas were very friendly.<br /><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-xlfP1I3g9Rg/VqKWZZM9fUI/AAAAAAAAIzk/I6UFS94XB7o/s1600/cats%2Bebay%2Bjanuary%2B2016%2B058.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="425" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-xlfP1I3g9Rg/VqKWZZM9fUI/AAAAAAAAIzk/I6UFS94XB7o/s640/cats%2Bebay%2Bjanuary%2B2016%2B058.JPG" width="640" /></a></div><br /><br />(Reservations must be made in advance because the number of humans is limited, and no one under age 8 is allowed in the cat room. However, you can also drop in to have coffee in the shop and just gaze through the window at the cats.)<br /><br /><a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-lwPLkMwzez4/VqKWrh8iXMI/AAAAAAAAIzs/wh0JCGvAxtU/s1600/cats%2Bebay%2Bjanuary%2B2016%2B091.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="266" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-lwPLkMwzez4/VqKWrh8iXMI/AAAAAAAAIzs/wh0JCGvAxtU/s400/cats%2Bebay%2Bjanuary%2B2016%2B091.JPG" width="400" /></a>There is a sign on the door to the cat room explaining the byclaws of the establishment and that you enter it knowing that you will encounter...cats. This would seem self-evident, but remember, this is America, land of litigation. You can't be too careful.<br /><br />In the cat room, there are felines, nothing more than felines. And loads of cat toys. And wonderful structures for cats to climb, explore, and snooze on.<br /><br />There are a few tables and benches for both humans and cats. We pussyfooted around the room, careful not to step on tails or toys, and visited kitties of all stripes and no stripes.<br /><br />The cats come from a local shelter, and most are adoptable (there are a few resident cats). It's a great strategy for showcasing cats' individual qualities--the cats at Seattle Meowtropolitan were content and very much at ease.<br /><br />If I didn't have two easily outraged cats and a boisterous dog at home, I'd probably have come home with this elderly orange tabby, who was grateful for a neck rub and rolled sideways to get a belly rub. Its back felt like a craggy mountain range beneath its thick fur, and it's nice to know this kitty will enjoy a pleasant retirement lounging on a sheepskin and basking in attention.<br /><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-P5aCQtl0ciE/VqKW7H4COvI/AAAAAAAAIz0/GqzGixTCgb0/s1600/cats%2Bebay%2Bjanuary%2B2016%2B059.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="425" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-P5aCQtl0ciE/VqKW7H4COvI/AAAAAAAAIz0/GqzGixTCgb0/s640/cats%2Bebay%2Bjanuary%2B2016%2B059.JPG" width="640" /></a></div><br /><br />Some cats, like this big gray sleeping at head height, were not in the mood to have their naps interrupted, but they didn't get all fussed about it--they just gave you That Look.<br /><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-AAxBCiw5DkA/VqKXFj8E1jI/AAAAAAAAIz8/fTgotDAsIJE/s1600/cats%2Bebay%2Bjanuary%2B2016%2B063.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="400" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-AAxBCiw5DkA/VqKXFj8E1jI/AAAAAAAAIz8/fTgotDAsIJE/s400/cats%2Bebay%2Bjanuary%2B2016%2B063.JPG" width="266" /></a></div><br /><br />The youngest cat, a cute little gray girl with white paws, was exhausted after a hard morning of playing.<br /><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-8eaJ_ldiS70/VqKXOJ-d_2I/AAAAAAAAI0E/5T8ozDO5u6o/s1600/cats%2Bebay%2Bjanuary%2B2016%2B065.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="426" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-8eaJ_ldiS70/VqKXOJ-d_2I/AAAAAAAAI0E/5T8ozDO5u6o/s640/cats%2Bebay%2Bjanuary%2B2016%2B065.JPG" width="640" /></a></div><br />An attractively marked calico exhibited an obsession with burrowing into piles of jackets and snuggling among them.<br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-SooGf7TbVfc/VqKXYc2mfdI/AAAAAAAAI0M/xjpaXsf4dp4/s1600/cats%2Bebay%2Bjanuary%2B2016%2B074.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="426" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-SooGf7TbVfc/VqKXYc2mfdI/AAAAAAAAI0M/xjpaXsf4dp4/s640/cats%2Bebay%2Bjanuary%2B2016%2B074.JPG" width="640" /></a></div><br />Another young cat preferred to do battle from a high perch.<br /><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-BnRSUTrAB3c/VqKXfIUx6jI/AAAAAAAAI0U/O0J5XpyzxUY/s1600/cats%2Bebay%2Bjanuary%2B2016%2B101.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="640" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-BnRSUTrAB3c/VqKXfIUx6jI/AAAAAAAAI0U/O0J5XpyzxUY/s640/cats%2Bebay%2Bjanuary%2B2016%2B101.JPG" width="426" /></a></div><br /><br />This orange tabby knew how to sit on command and offer up either his left or right paw when asked. He was also clever enough to do whatever he pleased to get a treat when the treat-provider wasn't the cat-room employee.<br /><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-MXOdY45JcwU/VqKXmtFZxhI/AAAAAAAAI0c/_rR7RV63Mm0/s1600/cats%2Bebay%2Bjanuary%2B2016%2B088.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="426" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-MXOdY45JcwU/VqKXmtFZxhI/AAAAAAAAI0c/_rR7RV63Mm0/s640/cats%2Bebay%2Bjanuary%2B2016%2B088.JPG" width="640" /></a></div><br /><br />The cats have plenty of places to escape from human attention so they don't get overwhelmed. There are boxes...<br /><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-svy_P7MWKug/VqKXuP0pyPI/AAAAAAAAI0k/TRT3lqakn8U/s1600/cats%2Bebay%2Bjanuary%2B2016%2B071.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="490" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-svy_P7MWKug/VqKXuP0pyPI/AAAAAAAAI0k/TRT3lqakn8U/s640/cats%2Bebay%2Bjanuary%2B2016%2B071.JPG" width="640" /></a></div><br /><br />...and an off-limits "cats only" area in the back.<br /><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-0W-UumTn6Zo/VqKY7VZJFUI/AAAAAAAAI0w/F5tcjA8oPFg/s1600/cats%2Bebay%2Bjanuary%2B2016%2B080.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="425" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-0W-UumTn6Zo/VqKY7VZJFUI/AAAAAAAAI0w/F5tcjA8oPFg/s640/cats%2Bebay%2Bjanuary%2B2016%2B080.JPG" width="640" /></a></div><span id="goog_1559337044"></span><span id="goog_1559337045"></span><br /><br />You can ponder the world according to cats in the bathroom...<br /><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-Fc4Jxf4R47U/VqKZD8svvEI/AAAAAAAAI04/u9alUFVHHTY/s1600/cats%2Bebay%2Bjanuary%2B2016%2B095.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="426" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-Fc4Jxf4R47U/VqKZD8svvEI/AAAAAAAAI04/u9alUFVHHTY/s640/cats%2Bebay%2Bjanuary%2B2016%2B095.JPG" width="640" /></a></div><br /><br />...and there are also delectable treats to purchase in the cafe (you don't have to sit on command or raise your right paw to acquire them, though it would be polite if you refrained from jumping on the table to eat them).<br /><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-P3XNmezBFqo/VqKZKWkdt3I/AAAAAAAAI1A/6HpNhZ4_Yzc/s1600/cats%2Bebay%2Bjanuary%2B2016%2B111.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="426" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-P3XNmezBFqo/VqKZKWkdt3I/AAAAAAAAI1A/6HpNhZ4_Yzc/s640/cats%2Bebay%2Bjanuary%2B2016%2B111.JPG" width="640" /></a></div><br />We had a purr-fectly lovely time, of course, and it's definitely one of Seattle's most a-mews-ing coffee shops. And I'm not kitten around. I'm sure Abyssnian some friends there again.<br /><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-fheqQ3LAX6o/VqKZTQTO8uI/AAAAAAAAI1I/MDTr_vR5io4/s1600/cats%2Bebay%2Bjanuary%2B2016%2B090.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="426" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-fheqQ3LAX6o/VqKZTQTO8uI/AAAAAAAAI1I/MDTr_vR5io4/s640/cats%2Bebay%2Bjanuary%2B2016%2B090.JPG" width="640" /></a></div><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /></div>Christina Wilsdonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02472802098557216513noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3981659012070333472.post-12109839322295167972016-01-01T15:34:00.001-08:002016-01-01T15:39:01.713-08:00First Bird of the Year 2016: Chestnut-Backed Chickadee<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on"><table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; margin-left: 1em; text-align: right;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-bcGfU6l8h7k/VocKvTBJHxI/AAAAAAAAIxY/6oZq15iYqXY/s1600/chestnut-backed%2Bchickadee%2Bwiki.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="296" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-bcGfU6l8h7k/VocKvTBJHxI/AAAAAAAAIxY/6oZq15iYqXY/s400/chestnut-backed%2Bchickadee%2Bwiki.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i>Photo from <a href="https://commons.wikimedia.org/wiki/File:Chestnut-backed_Chickadee_2154ab.jpg">Wiki Commons</a></i></td></tr></tbody></table>A birder in Australia once started her new year with a sighting of a wedge-tailed eagle eating a straw-necked ibis.<br /><br />If I were her, I'd definitely choose the eagle as my official first sighting, and not only because the general rules of birding mandate that the birds you count on your life list must be alive, but because the First Bird of the Year is supposed to augur the sort of year you're going to have.<br /><br />In that regard, this sighting of a straw-necked ibis would not seem to bode well.<br /><br />Living in a suburban neighborhood as I do, my First Bird is never going to be as dramatic a species as a wedge-tailed eagle. I figured that on this frosty January 1 it would be one of the busy birds attacking our feeders, and today that bird was the chestnut-backed chickadee--a pert little bird whose cheerful, busy ways make it the very incarnation of all those New Year's resolutions about making better use of one's time and getting things done.<br /><br /><table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-pbtl0LnpGZA/VocLzY5ydTI/AAAAAAAAIx0/Y7nr7huwKLw/s1600/chestnut-backed%2Bchickadee%2B4.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="262" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-pbtl0LnpGZA/VocLzY5ydTI/AAAAAAAAIx0/Y7nr7huwKLw/s400/chestnut-backed%2Bchickadee%2B4.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i>Chestnut-backed chickadee at our feeder, winter 2013</i></td></tr></tbody></table>"Our" chestnut-backed chickadees spend these chilly days diving down from the top of the plum tree to the feeder, plucking out sunflower seeds, and then swooping away to cache them in crevices and under bits of bark. This behavior makes them highly appropriate creatures to set the tone for our upcoming year, in which we must practice austerity in anticipation of paying for the Resident Teen's post-high-school education and wishing that, like the chickadee, we'd socked away a lot more in previous years...<br /><br />Chestnut-backed chickadees are West Coast birds that favor old, wet forests with lots of Sitka spruce and other conifers, but like their relatives the black-capped chickadees they're also at home in rural and suburban gardens.<br /><br />Their range overlaps with that of the widespread black-capped, but where they occur together, they coexist nicely because they occupy different niches: chestnut-backed chickadees typically scour the upper branches of conifers for insects, and the black-capped chickadees prefer to glean the lower branches and favor oaks over conifers.<br /><br />The two species don't even bicker at the feeder--they're happy to take turns depleting the seed supply, and both dart in and out without fussing about the finches, towhees, and sparrows also thronging the banquet.<br /><br />Ornithologists named the bird for its rich, chestnut feathers, but chickadees named themselves with their distinctive "chick-a-dee-dee-dee" call. The number of "dees" varies--a truly&nbsp;<a href="http://www.washington.edu/news/2005/06/23/chickadees-alarm-calls-carry-information-about-size-threat-of-predator/">alarmed chickadee</a>&nbsp;may tack on quite a few to its call when it wants other birds to join in mobbing a perched raptor or a land-based predator such as a cat. One scientist counted 23 extra "dees" in a chickadee's call when it detected a perched pygmy-owl.<br /><br />Alas, poor chestnut-backed chickadee! In many books, its vocal abilities are frequently compared, somewhat unfavorably, to the &nbsp;black-capped's.<br /><br /><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-NFasvZeXNLQ/VocMccw-X1I/AAAAAAAAIyY/GFWPTdGEWLU/s1600/chestnut-backed%2Bchickadee%2B3.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="451" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-NFasvZeXNLQ/VocMccw-X1I/AAAAAAAAIyY/GFWPTdGEWLU/s640/chestnut-backed%2Bchickadee%2B3.jpg" width="640" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i>Black-capped chickadee (left) and chestnut-backed chickadee (right) at our feeder</i></td></tr></tbody></table><br />A 1968 Seattle Audubon Society guidebook says this species produces "nasal notes," a "harsh <i>check check chickadee</i>" and a "more nasal <i>pip-durr-durr</i>." (Imagine if they'd called this species a pipdurrdurr; how fun would that be?)<br /><i><br /></i><i>National Geographic Complete Birds of North America</i> says the chestnut-backed's call is "a hoarse, high-pitched, rapid <i>sik-zee-zee</i> or just <i>zee-zee."&nbsp;</i><br /><br />In <i>The National Audubon Society Field Guide to Western Birds, </i>it's said to utter "a squeaky <i>chick-a-dee</i>, somewhat shriller and faster than that of other chickadees" and often "simply utters a thin <i>tsee-deee</i> and thin lisping notes."<br /><br />And Sibley adds that its typical call consists of "high buzzy notes with lower nasal husky notes <i>tsidi-tsidi-tsidi-cheer-cheer</i> or weaker <i>tsity ti jee jee."</i><br /><br />Thin, nasal, squeaky, hoarse, weak, high-pitched, shrill...how long could you listen to a chestnut-backed chickadee chattering away with you in a coffee shop? (That's if you could put up with it hanging upside down half the time.)<br /><br /><table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; margin-left: 1em; text-align: right;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-L_pKICM4HCc/VocMxMbRuDI/AAAAAAAAIyg/_KiCZSz29VY/s1600/chestnut-backed%2Bchickadee%2B2.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="335" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-L_pKICM4HCc/VocMxMbRuDI/AAAAAAAAIyg/_KiCZSz29VY/s400/chestnut-backed%2Bchickadee%2B2.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i>Chestnut-backed chickadee at our feeder</i></td></tr></tbody></table>But some writers were onto this nefarious Black-Capped Chickadees Set the Standard thing long ago. Ornithologist William Dawson, in his 1923 work <i>Birds of California</i>, pointed out that many authors wrote descriptions of the chestnut-backed chickadee's behavior that were entirely extrapolated from that of the black-capped.<br /><br />He acknowledged that the chestnut-backed was "neither quite so lively nor so noisy as his giddy eastern cousin" but also that it was "one of the daintiest and most alluring of the dwellers in the redwoods," calling them "busy little midgets" and admiring "what a merry war they wage on beetle and nit." To his ears, the little birds trilled <i>sweetee </i>and a beakful of a phrase he rendered as a rather Croatian-looking&nbsp;<i>kechesawick</i>. He also noted that they uttered <i>chickadee </i>as <i>kissadee</i>, "the latter given so caressingly that you want to pinch the little darling."<br /><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-HwvDOzT4Rjc/VocM-IQYSYI/AAAAAAAAIyo/22K6fAr9Sp4/s1600/black%2Bcapped%2Bchickadee.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="400" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-HwvDOzT4Rjc/VocM-IQYSYI/AAAAAAAAIyo/22K6fAr9Sp4/s400/black%2Bcapped%2Bchickadee.jpg" width="247" /></a></div>John James Audubon didn't have much to say about the chestnut-backed chickadee, basing his account of the chickadee genus primarily on the black-capped, though he did paint a lively and charming pair of the birds. He called this species the chestnut-backed titmouse.<br /><br /><i>Titmouse </i>is basically the Old World word for a chickadee, springing from an ancient Anglo-Saxon word <i>tit </i>(meaning something very small--stop that giggling, now) and another equally old word, <i>mase (</i>which also meant "tiny" or even "small bird, depending on the source).<br /><br />The bird-word connection extends even into punctuation in an essay by one of the writers who toiled to produce the massive tome <i>Birds of America,</i> published in 1936 by the University Society with lots of assistance from Audubon Society and Cornell experts. In that work, chestnut-backed chickadees are depicted as "feathered interrogation points...interviewing and questioning every passer-by."<br /><br />Speaking of interrogation, I think our chickadees are demanding more sunflower seeds, if the gimlet stares they're lasering through my office window are any indication....<br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><div><br /></div><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /></div>Christina Wilsdonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02472802098557216513noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3981659012070333472.post-24258248802553660502015-11-05T13:44:00.000-08:002015-11-05T22:30:36.929-08:00Feathers, Kids, and a Dose of Humility<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-QSl8iXf9S8Y/VjvMBZvGQtI/AAAAAAAAIsA/YqDzsBclWN8/s1600/flamingo%2Bfor%2Bblog.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="400" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-QSl8iXf9S8Y/VjvMBZvGQtI/AAAAAAAAIsA/YqDzsBclWN8/s400/flamingo%2Bfor%2Bblog.jpg" width="300" /></a></div>Getting lost while driving in strange places is one of my biggest fears. Never mind that the strange place may be just the local hamlet of Kirkland; I could make a wrong turn and be unable to correct it quickly because of an angry driver tailgating me, and before you know it, I would be on <i>The Highway With No Exits Until Bucktail, Nebraska!</i><br /><div><br /><div>So I wasn't sure I wanted to budge out of my house one Thursday evening a few weeks ago.<br /><br />Plus, it was dark. And raining.</div><div><br /></div><div>Nevertheless, I decided to shake off my slothfulness and actually drive somewhere after dinner, because it isn't every day that the author of one of your favorite books is speaking practically in your backyard, unless you happen to live next door to him or her and he or she is asking you to please come get your dog out of their chicken coop.</div><div><br /></div><div>Reader, you will be glad to hear that I made it safely to my destination in Kirkland and even found parking. The event I attended was hosted by the Eastside Audubon Society and featured biologist Thor Hanson, author of the smashing book <i>Feathers </i>and the newly published <i>The Triumph of&nbsp;Seeds</i>.</div><div><br /></div><div><a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-tAWUO1zLK4Y/VjvMpyd3pvI/AAAAAAAAIsQ/Fn5S7GCPDXs/s1600/P1110664.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="213" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-tAWUO1zLK4Y/VjvMpyd3pvI/AAAAAAAAIsQ/Fn5S7GCPDXs/s320/P1110664.JPG" width="320" /></a><i>Feathers </i>is the kind of natural-history book I love best--one that sweeps together a multitude of fascinating facts as well as anecdotes and snippets of cultural as well as natural history and compels you with the same narrative drive that a good novel does.&nbsp;</div><div><br /></div><div>I pretty much expected that I'd learn more about feathers and possibly seeds that evening, which of course would've been wonderful, but just like the aforementioned <i>Feathers</i>, the author's discussion ranged across topics and lit on many subjects I hold dear: writing, kids, everyday wonders, and the instinctive affinity for the natural world that every child is born with and that can blossom or wither as the child grows.</div><div><br /></div><div>I could natter on for ages about any of these topics but I'll stick with one of the anecdotes Hanson shared, a little story in which a child takes you down a peg or two without intending to do so and leaves you realizing that even if you think you're fairly humble, you're still capable of fluffing up your feathers and strutting a bit.</div><div><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-3ho3YIqe9GI/VjvKUWPxMCI/AAAAAAAAIrU/G3JE5zKoX-E/s1600/P1060943.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="266" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-3ho3YIqe9GI/VjvKUWPxMCI/AAAAAAAAIrU/G3JE5zKoX-E/s400/P1060943.JPG" width="400" /></a></div><div>In the author's story, he was at a local shop in their very small town with his young son, where they ran into a little girl from their preschool. In the shop's window was a poster with the author's photo on it, announcing the date of an upcoming presentation. The little girl gawped at the author, looked at the poster, looked back at the author, then back at the poster, clearly linking the two and seemingly speechless. "Is that you?" she finally asked. Yes, came the reply.&nbsp;</div><div><br /></div><div>How could one not feel a bit chuffed at this bit of recognition? And then came the flattening reaction: the little girl studied the author, and then the photo, and finally asked, "Do you wear the same sweater <i>every day</i>?"&nbsp;</div><div><br /></div><div>(Note to self: borrow a sweater when the day comes that I actually get an author photo taken. And return it to the owner immediately.)</div><div><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-h0_BHrPYSM8/VjvMBiTfjKI/AAAAAAAAIr8/SG-l6PB913w/s1600/peacock%2Bfor%2Bblog.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="400" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-h0_BHrPYSM8/VjvMBiTfjKI/AAAAAAAAIr8/SG-l6PB913w/s400/peacock%2Bfor%2Bblog.jpg" width="300" /></a></div><div>My dad had a similar experience once upon a time. He was an aeronautical engineer with many interests and loved nothing more than a wide-ranging conversation. One summer day, he was at a company picnic, and a little boy fell into chatting with him. Talk turned to jets and airplane design. Dad warmed to his topic as the boy stared at him, entranced. How wonderful to have such an appreciative audience! The boy was practically slack-jawed with fascination.</div><div><br /></div><div>Then, without warning, the boy sped off and ran to his own father. He pointed back at my dad. "Papa! Papa!" he cried. "Look! Look! That man is all covered with little dots!"</div><div><br /></div><div>It is quite true that auburn-haired Dad was liberally speckled with reddish freckles, which were on glorious display in short sleeves on that summer day. "Well," said Dad at this point, "<i>that </i>put me in my place."</div><div><br /></div><div>Carol Burnett knew this feeling well; on her show back in the 1970s, she told a story about sitting on her young daughter's bed, talking to her earnestly--longer than she'd intended, as the child's rapt face and unblinking gaze encouraged her to continue. Satisfied, Burnett smiled lovingly at her daughter, waiting for a reaction. She didn't expect it to be the statement, "Wow. You sure have a lot of teeth."</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-2DKl8_3OpVM/VjvKoS5LhdI/AAAAAAAAIrc/R-Uf75ufSJE/s1600/P1070879%25281%2529.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="400" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-2DKl8_3OpVM/VjvKoS5LhdI/AAAAAAAAIrc/R-Uf75ufSJE/s400/P1070879%25281%2529.JPG" width="266" /></a></div><div><br /></div><div>I don't recall a time when anybody young or old hung on my every word, but there was a day when I gave a little presentation about writing books to a small group of kids in my daughter's elementary school.<br /><br />Most of them were inattentive, but one boy was riveted. I turned the pages of one of my published books and warbled on about the writing of books for his benefit. When I asked if anyone had any questions, his hand shot up. That's when I learned the real source of his fascination: "How did you write all those words so perfectly in the book?"&nbsp;</div><div><br /></div><div>By which of course he didn't mean my deft word selection, but actually I would be very happy to see that as a review on Amazon. Hope is, after all, the thing with feathers.*</div><div><br /></div><div><i><span style="font-size: x-small;">*A statement that I can no longer make without thinking of Woody Allen's reaction:&nbsp;“How wrong Emily Dickinson was! Hope is not 'the thing with feathers.' The thing with feathers has turned out to be my nephew. I must take him to a specialist in Zurich.”</span></i></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div></div></div>Christina Wilsdonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02472802098557216513noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3981659012070333472.post-31525756675059785692015-09-09T11:25:00.000-07:002015-09-09T11:49:10.130-07:00The Race Is to the Swifts<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">In February and March, people visit San Juan Capistrano in hope of seeing the return of cliff swallows to their nests beneath the eaves of old mission buildings. March is also when folks await the return of buzzards (turkey vultures) to Hinckley, Ohio.<br /><br />And every summer night, hundreds of people gather to watch more than a million Mexican free-tailed bats pour out from under a bridge in Austin, Texas.<br /><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-p1v2BgQQi6M/VfBs_Vix9WI/AAAAAAAAIn4/Mkro1jV9STA/s1600/P1220241.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="266" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-p1v2BgQQi6M/VfBs_Vix9WI/AAAAAAAAIn4/Mkro1jV9STA/s400/P1220241.JPG" width="400" /></a></div>But if you've missed these annual animal aggregations, never fear. Because now is when Vaux's swifts are streaming south for the winter, pausing to rest and feed in the vicinity of Monroe, Washington--and when people flock to an old chimney to watch the little birds plunge into it at night.<br /><br />Vaux's swifts, often described as "flying cigars," are North America's smallest swifts at barely 4.5 inches in length. They spend spring and summer in western North America, primarily in coastal states and Mexico, ranging as far north as southern Alaska . Then they skip out on us to spend winter in warm, sunny central America. Clever birds.<br /><br />"Wait a sec," says you. "What was that bit about the chimney?"<br /><br />Yes, it's true, Santa isn't the only organism that plummets down chimneys on a predictable schedule. Vaux's swifts nest in cavities, in hollow trees, and chimneys. During migration, they cram into trees and chimneys by the hundreds and thousands in order to keep warm--and safe from predators--at night.<br /><br /><table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-QueyoM86s9M/VfBtKOQRXII/AAAAAAAAIoA/_L9RFTSEkVc/s1600/vaux%2Bswift%2Bwall.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="298" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-QueyoM86s9M/VfBtKOQRXII/AAAAAAAAIoA/_L9RFTSEkVc/s320/vaux%2Bswift%2Bwall.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i><a href="http://wdfw.wa.gov/wildwatch/vauxcam/">Photo from Washington Dept. of Wildlife</a></i></td></tr></tbody></table>They cling to vertical surfaces with sharp-clawed toes. Their short legs and feet are completely unsuitable for walking on the ground and not much use for perching, either.<br /><br />When they're not stuck upright as if held in place by Velcro, they're flying. Vaux's swifts do nearly everything on the wing--courting, mating, feeding by snapping up insects in midair, and drinking by swooping over water and scooping up a beakful. They even gather nesting material while in flight.<br /><br />In Monroe, the birds swarm into an old, unused chimney that's part of the Frank Wagner Elementary School. The chimney is 31 feet tall with an opening that measures four square feet. As many as 21,000 swifts funnel into it in a matter of minutes. Once inside, each bird jostles to find a holdfast. They settle into place, overlapping like shingles on a roof.<br /><br />We visited the swifts in September 2014, arriving early to enjoy a feast of spaghetti and apple crisp. (A swift eats about 20,000 insects in a day, so we didn't save any for the birds.) Kids pitched beanbag swifts into a cardboard chimney. People wandered about wearing headbands adorned with paper swifts bobbing on pipe-cleaner posts. An Audubon table lined with stuffed remains of various bird species attracted a small crowd.<br /><br />Looking at the fragile form of the Vaux's swift, you couldn't help but marvel at its diminutive size and realize just how much of a live bird consists of flurry, fluff, and motion.<br /><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-mfXx1-2WhnE/VfBtro-ZRcI/AAAAAAAAIoI/cwpVAFWVbYY/s1600/P1220262.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="425" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-mfXx1-2WhnE/VfBtro-ZRcI/AAAAAAAAIoI/cwpVAFWVbYY/s640/P1220262.JPG" width="640" /></a></div>Early-birds fluttered near the chimney as evening advanced. The sky darkened, and the swifts' numbers grew. They looked like bats as they flickered through the air.<br /><br />Darker and darker grew the sky, faster and faster whirled the birds. And then, as if at a signal, they began dropping into the chimney. Each bird dove at the opening, braking its fast forward motion to plummet in tail-first.<br /><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-1K1zihbaSoA/VfBuHgB9iII/AAAAAAAAIoQ/NIutoPwmGwY/s1600/P1220330.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="400" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-1K1zihbaSoA/VfBuHgB9iII/AAAAAAAAIoQ/NIutoPwmGwY/s400/P1220330.JPG" width="266" /></a></div>So many birds! It was as if the chimney were a vacuum drawing them in from the sky. They twirled in like a reverse cloud of smoke. The tornado spun for several minutes before diminishing, bit by bit, until the storm was down to just a few stragglers.<br /><br />And then, after a few beats, one last bird zipped across the sky and ducked in just in time, accompanied by onlookers' laughter and applause.<br /><br />John James Audubon doesn't appear to have ever painted the Vaux's swift, but he did encounter its eastern cousin, the chimney swift, and study its natural history. He witnessed the birds' flowing into a communal roost at dusk and described it :<br /><br />"When about to descend into a hollow tree or a chimney, its flight, always rapid, is suddenly interrupted as if by magic, for down it goes in an instant, whirling in a peculiar manner, and whirring with its wings, so as to produce a sound in the chimney like the rumbling of very distant thunder."<br /><br />Ornithologist William Leon Dawson (1873–1928), who called the Vaux's swift a humble "sky-scooter," notes that "at favorite seasons the birds cross and recross each other's paths in lawless mazes and fill the air with their strident creakings, while here and there couples and even trios sail about in great stiff curves with wings held aloft."<br /><br />Vaux's swifts are a cause for celebration at a number of chimneys along their migratory flight path. You can cheer them on in Monroe this year on Saturday, September 12 (find out more on the Swift Night Out website <a href="http://monroeswifts.org/see-the-swifts/swiftnightout-announce/">here</a>). The website also streams images of the birds inside the chimney via the Swiftcam (shown below).<br /><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-LJAH209LPRE/VfBu-33XIuI/AAAAAAAAIoc/peWT19JXOv8/s1600/P1220246.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="266" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-LJAH209LPRE/VfBu-33XIuI/AAAAAAAAIoc/peWT19JXOv8/s400/P1220246.JPG" width="400" /></a></div><br /></div>Christina Wilsdonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02472802098557216513noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3981659012070333472.post-51749910689802751802015-07-23T17:23:00.000-07:002015-07-23T22:12:46.471-07:00Boy Howdy, Plum Pandowdy!<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-DGrjItYxcKo/VbGEjwtnmxI/AAAAAAAAIf4/f49imVF11os/s1600/plum2.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="400" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-DGrjItYxcKo/VbGEjwtnmxI/AAAAAAAAIf4/f49imVF11os/s400/plum2.jpg" width="225" /></a></div>It's been so hot around here that one of our fans finally conked out from exhaustion and was replaced with three new ones. The Pacific Northwest spent June and July smashing high-temperature records (13 days with temperatures of 80 degrees or warmer in June...8 days of 85+ in June...plenty of 90+ days...new record high recorded in Walla Walla on June 28 of 113 degrees...that sort of thing).<br /><br />Thanks to this scorching, it's looking a lot like September around here, with parched brown lawns and trees shedding yellow leaves and mountain ashes already flaunting bunches of orange berries. And it surely must have something to do with our ornamental plum tree producing a bumper crop of plums, probably for the first time in its life.<br /><br />Ornamental plum trees are not bred to produce luscious fruit. They're just supposed to look pretty decked out in their frilly pink spring finery. Perhaps some quirk of timing in when the tree bloomed this year due to the heat caused more of its flowers to be pollinated, because it's pumping out plums by the bucketful.<br /><br />The plums are perfectly edible, which is not the same thing as perfectly luscious. We haven't felt terribly inspired to pick them.<br /><br />For one thing, our tree's branches are up very high, and we don't have the right sort of ladder to boost us safely up into the branches. For another, the fruit, while copious, is scattered throughout the crown, not easily situated for picking.<br /><br />And gathering up the fallen fruit is a tedious and unproductive activity. The only way to do it without constantly stooping and looking like one of those drinky-bird toys teetering around the yard is to crawl on hands and knees, inspecting each grape-sized fruit for worms. Any that aren't infested with worms are bound to have burst open, because they hit the ground like water balloons. You can hear them crash from across the garden.<br /><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-uCdePkF1KZ0/VbGEt9gXVmI/AAAAAAAAIgA/bzpxkA5Vpcw/s1600/plum5.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="225" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-uCdePkF1KZ0/VbGEt9gXVmI/AAAAAAAAIgA/bzpxkA5Vpcw/s400/plum5.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><br />All that effort garners a few cups of puny plums, which, though resembling red grapes, lack that fruit's snap, pop, and zing. &nbsp;They're mealy and mushy, with a seed that takes up about a third of the interior. Fine for jam, but pretty blah out of hand.<br /><br />But I did have a nice bowl full of yellow plums from a friend. It was way too hot to bother making jam, but it's never too hot to make a fruit dessert to serve with vanilla ice cream. I flipped through the recipe books and settled on a plum pandowdy.<br /><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-_l62HLsqxbE/VbGE2gYsagI/AAAAAAAAIgI/Uib_I_XZk6g/s1600/plum6.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="225" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-_l62HLsqxbE/VbGE2gYsagI/AAAAAAAAIgI/Uib_I_XZk6g/s400/plum6.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><br />"Pandowdy" is one of those words that's fun to say but has murky origins. The recipe book claimed that the name came from the way the pastry was laid across the cooked fruit and then chopped into squares and pushed down into it--an action called "dowdying." I haven't been able to verify that anywhere. Though perhaps if you smash something that's literally an upper crust to bits, it becomes dowdy...?<br /><br />I never got to the "dowdy" part, though, because I was impatient and made the classic mistake of not reading the recipe through before assembling it, so I ended up dumping some dry ingredients into the pastry that weren't supposed to go in because they were for the filling. Oops. There was no way it would ever roll out under a pin, so I just crumbled it into blobs and dropped it on the filling. Even dowdier than the original plan.<br /><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-dyfuJ2Uo-7k/VbGE-fJxQwI/AAAAAAAAIgQ/4vv2fiCelYY/s1600/plum3.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="225" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-dyfuJ2Uo-7k/VbGE-fJxQwI/AAAAAAAAIgQ/4vv2fiCelYY/s400/plum3.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><br />The end result was an extremely tart caramel-colored plummy dessert with mediocre chunks of pastry in it. Filling definitely needed more sugar, which could've been supplied by putting on a crumb topping instead of pastry--but a nice dollop of vanilla ice cream offset the tartness, so the pandowdy was history in a respectable amount of time.<br /><br />It didn't inspire me to crawl around the garden scrutinizing fallen plums and collecting them for another recipe, however. I'm leaving them to the birds (robins particularly love fruit, and it's fun to watch them stab the orbs and shake them around before swallowing them), and to Luna, who's been joyfully hoovering them up for weeks. She is transported with joy that we have a snack-dispensing tree in the yard.<br /><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-Pz1PcFKXZIs/VbGFIGTxcGI/AAAAAAAAIgY/ARzqevvMkUs/s1600/plum4.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="225" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-Pz1PcFKXZIs/VbGFIGTxcGI/AAAAAAAAIgY/ARzqevvMkUs/s400/plum4.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><br />But for the resident humans, walking across the yard is like tramping around on a giant sheet of bubble wrap, and it'll be that way for a few weeks yet, judging by how many plums are still dangling from the branches. I must say, this ornamental tree looks extremely proud of itself.<br /><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-Q-y8DsPQJqU/VbGFOgE641I/AAAAAAAAIgg/CqEIf6NuljI/s1600/plum1.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="225" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-Q-y8DsPQJqU/VbGFOgE641I/AAAAAAAAIgg/CqEIf6NuljI/s400/plum1.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><br /><br /><br /></div>Christina Wilsdonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02472802098557216513noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3981659012070333472.post-16190681626606770732015-07-02T15:48:00.001-07:002015-07-03T11:51:27.283-07:00Hush! A Thrush<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on"><a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-YgcrmRncCmc/VZW9F1IqftI/AAAAAAAAIbM/qs9owet2aGU/s1600/P1240775.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="266" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-YgcrmRncCmc/VZW9F1IqftI/AAAAAAAAIbM/qs9owet2aGU/s400/P1240775.JPG" width="400" /></a>Some birds are more often heard than seen. <br /><br />The Swainson's thrush is a member of this shy chorus. Cryptically clad in buff and white, with a spattering of spots to break up its form, it slips quietly through trees and shrubs, keeping out of sight.<br /><br />But when the male Swainson's lifts his voice in song, it's enough to make you feel as if you've been transported to some Arcadian idyll. The song is an ethereal upward spiral, sung not only at dawn but also throughout the evening, often until well after sunset. A haunting, ringing quality seems to make it hang shimmering in the air until the next trill rises. (You can listen to it <a href="http://www.allaboutbirds.org/guide/Swainsons_Thrush/sounds">here</a>.)<br /><br />Before this year, I'd only seen a Swainson's thrush once, and that was just because he was kicking up a storm rustling through leaves in a neighbor's yard uphill from my Seattle one in an area where a fence had fallen down. He gave me one startled look and vanished.<br /><br />This summer, I have the privilege of watching a female Swainson's incubate her eggs in a nest perched on a conifer branch just a few yards from my office window in Cottage Lake.<br /><br />She sits so patiently on &nbsp;her tightly woven nest; on many days it seems she only moves to snuggle herself in more deeply. I often feel like bringing out a few magazines for her, and a little cup of coffee. With the recent scorching weather, though, I've observed her sitting next to the nest, letting the air keep the eggs warm. She prods the eggs with her beak now and then, testing their temperature and turning them over.<br /><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-v5TOTGMSxG4/VZW9Yz7tEcI/AAAAAAAAIbU/N6zxNOAMSJA/s1600/P1240767.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="426" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-v5TOTGMSxG4/VZW9Yz7tEcI/AAAAAAAAIbU/N6zxNOAMSJA/s640/P1240767.JPG" width="640" /></a></div><br />The male, however, is all over the place. He often flutters into the maple right next to the window to peer in at me. Or to give a thumping to the male robin who rashly lands on a branch in his domain. Sometimes he swoops through the spray of the hose when I'm watering the raspberry patch out front. Sometimes he perches on the shepherd's hook in the garden near the nest, looking like an expectant father pacing a waiting room in a 1940s movie.<br /><br />The Swainson's thrush is such a lovely bird, it's a shame that it's got such an unimaginative name--the fate, alas, of so many birds. No offense, Swainson, but seriously? You already have a warbler and a hawk named after you. (Reptiles and fish totally luck out when it comes to names. More on that some other time.)<br /><br />Regional names for this flutist of the woods aren't much of an improvement. According to the <i>Audubon Encyclopedia of North American Birds</i>, its nicknames include Alma's thrush (who's Alma?), olive-backed thrush (ho-hum), russet-backed thrush (yawn), and swamp robin (better, but rather limiting).<br /><br />More interesting are the varied ways in which bird books render the thrush's skein of song.<br /><table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-JH2-ZjLQFMo/VZW9kIOAjTI/AAAAAAAAIbc/nWWpiepnuL4/s1600/swainsons%2Bthrush.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="300" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-JH2-ZjLQFMo/VZW9kIOAjTI/AAAAAAAAIbc/nWWpiepnuL4/s400/swainsons%2Bthrush.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i>photo from Wikipedia</i></td></tr></tbody></table><br />"Song spirals upward, like <i>whip-poor-will-a-will-e-zee-zee-zee</i>, going up high and fine at end..." explains the <i>Audubon Encyclopedia of North American Birds</i>.<br /><br />"<i>Po po tu tu tu tureel tureel tiree tree tree,"</i> warble the thrushes in the Sibley guide, but only if they're in the Pacific; interior west and taiga birds tend to whistle <i>"po rer reer reeer re-e-e-e-e-e" </i>instead.<br /><br />Naturalist William Leon Dawson, in <i>Birds of California,</i> describes this thrush as "a flitting shade and a haunting voice," and admits to difficulty in recreating the song in syllables, but shares other naturalists' versions:<br /><blockquote class="tr_bq"><i>weeloo weelo weeloeee</i><i>wit-wit</i></blockquote><blockquote class="tr_bq"><i>t'villia-t'villia</i><i>holsey</i></blockquote><blockquote class="tr_bq"><i>govendy govindy goveendy</i></blockquote>Well, <i>wit-wit</i> and <i>weeloo </i>and a <i>govindy,&nbsp;</i>too. Some authors, though, dispense with interpreting the song and go with the "everybody's a critic" approach:<br /><blockquote class="tr_bq">"Those who have heard the olive-backed thrush singing an even-song to its brooding mate compare it with the veery's, but it has a break in it and is less simple and pleasing than the latter's." Neltje Blanchan, <i>Bird Neighbors,</i> 1922</blockquote><blockquote class="tr_bq">"Its song, while perhaps not as beautiful as that of the Hermit Thrush, is better known to most bird-watchers..." <i>Audubon Society Field Guide to North American Birds, Eastern Region</i></blockquote><blockquote class="tr_bq">"The throaty, gurgling song lacks the richness of the wood thrush's and the purity of the hermit's but is pleasantly musical." Richard Pough, <i>Audubon Guides</i></blockquote>Fortunately, Swainson's thrushes cannot read.<br /><br /><table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; margin-left: 1em; text-align: right;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-JjzylHHeS-g/VZW_iKD2fjI/AAAAAAAAIbo/yEdAA8SV8IQ/s1600/swainsons%2Bthrush%2B5.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="266" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-JjzylHHeS-g/VZW_iKD2fjI/AAAAAAAAIbo/yEdAA8SV8IQ/s400/swainsons%2Bthrush%2B5.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i>By Don Faulkner via Wikimedia Commons</i></td></tr></tbody></table>They also make a wonderful call that sounds like a drop of water, often rendered <i>whoit </i>or <i>quoit.</i><br /><br />[We interrupt this twittering about thrush song for some breaking news. It appears the eggs may have hatched, as I thought I saw a tiny head and gaping beak protrude from the nest's edge before Mama Thrush stood over it. She has her wings spread out to shade the nest, as it's currently in full sunlight on a day shaping up to be a hot one.]<br /><br />I have my fingers crossed for our resident thrushes. Their nest is built precariously close to the tip of a branch, rather than tucked closely by the trunk, and I fear that the day will come that a jay or crow takes note of it and dives in for a meal.<br /><br />I know, I know, that's nature for you. I don't blame the jays and crows; I just hope it doesn't happen. The thrushes have been so single-minded &nbsp;in raising their brood, parental intensity condensed to a single point in their black ink-drop eyes. I'd like to see their little ones fledge.<br /><br />In fall, Swainson's thrushes leave the northwest and head south. Some migrate as far as Argentina. They fly at night, calling to each other, and if you listen in a quiet place, you can hear their notes twinkling down from the sky.</div>Christina Wilsdonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02472802098557216513noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3981659012070333472.post-9273081106037917922015-06-18T19:25:00.001-07:002015-06-19T07:40:18.821-07:00The Fifth Father's Day <div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on"><a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-0BRWaD7RKOM/VYN47LIHmFI/AAAAAAAAIRY/yUT8LY02wTQ/s1600/dad%2Bcloseup%2Blaughing.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-0BRWaD7RKOM/VYN47LIHmFI/AAAAAAAAIRY/yUT8LY02wTQ/s320/dad%2Bcloseup%2Blaughing.JPG" width="275" /></a>We're approaching our fifth Father's Day now without Dad. Which seems impossible--impossible both that he's not here, and that it has been five years. So much happened during that span that it wasn't until this past spring that I was able to deliver on a promise we made to him in his last month--that we would take good care of his book collection and not just chuck it in the bin at a thrift store.<br /><br />My dad was never without a stack of books to read. He consumed a steady supply of books about history, mathematics, and airplanes (he was an aerodynamics engineer) and also would fasten on to subjects that he'd pursue for months on end. Among the last ones were the&nbsp;Peloponnesian war and the building of the Panama Canal.<br /><br />All those books would be carefully bookmarked with his favorite marker: a computer punch card from his early days at Grumman Aerospace. He had stacks of them, having retrieved them from the company when they were throwing them away after they were outmoded.<br /><br /><a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-4jkyDiYsJkU/VYN5LuYsz1I/AAAAAAAAIRg/ReARlGyCBDc/s1600/dad22.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-4jkyDiYsJkU/VYN5LuYsz1I/AAAAAAAAIRg/ReARlGyCBDc/s320/dad22.jpg" width="169" /></a>Often these cards bear a list of words my dad encountered in his reading and intended to look up, sometimes because he didn't know the meaning but more often because he wanted to learn more about the word's origins.<br /><br />After his death, and our mom's subsequent move to a smaller home, the vast majority of the household's books were easily sorted: history and boating books mainly went to one brother's household, a lot of science books to mine, cooking ones to my sister and me, a handful of aircraft books to my nephews.<br /><br />But finding a place for his aeronautical and engineering books, many of which were highly technical, would be hard--that is, if Boeing's own museum and library wasn't interested.<br /><br />We didn't want to ask them point-blank if they just wanted boxes and boxes of books, so I set out to catalog the entire collection and gather it in one document so the librarians could pick and choose according to the needs of their library.<br /><br />Sounds tedious, but it actually offered ample time to muse on the office--the "den" as we called it--where Dad kept his books when we were kids and worked late sometimes on special projects. It was a tiny room, rather dark, but we were always welcome even though now I know we were probably delaying his work by popping in to visit.<br /><br />I recall gazing up in wonder at all those books, many of them somber-looking tomes from the 1940s and early 1950s, and whispering in awe, "Wow, Dad, you must be really smart!"<br /><br />"Not really," he chuckled. (But he was.)<br /><br />Sometimes as I flipped the pages of a book after gleaning the title, author, and publication date, a computer card or piece of paper would fall out, or I'd find a note written on a page. Because the mathematics involved are totally beyond my understanding, I could only marvel at the inscrutability of what was amazing to him.<br /><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-Soswy-OvQ6Q/VYN5n7Yx4RI/AAAAAAAAIRw/Xxs2YlZ6iME/s1600/dad18.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="225" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-Soswy-OvQ6Q/VYN5n7Yx4RI/AAAAAAAAIRw/Xxs2YlZ6iME/s400/dad18.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><br />One item in his library was a 4-inch-thick bound stack of papers with 7 or 8 columns of numbers on each page, just a river of data pouring through the volume. On one page, in one column, Dad had corrected a few digits in one number after the decimal point. How he could've spotted that error utterly escapes me.<br /><br />I loved seeing the enthusiasm he had in acquiring a volume, and how the engineers kept a running history in a beloved book, as if it were a family Bible:<br /><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-0alF3QJRxIY/VYN6lszgvcI/AAAAAAAAISQ/TbTWLneiIkg/s1600/fantastic.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="209" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-0alF3QJRxIY/VYN6lszgvcI/AAAAAAAAISQ/TbTWLneiIkg/s320/fantastic.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><br />On a more down-to-earth level, I enjoyed seeing how his signature changed over the years: from a student's careful script...<br /><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-JnjaDwDFnks/VYN7oLUJECI/AAAAAAAAISw/QORqThafxkw/s1600/student.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="180" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-JnjaDwDFnks/VYN7oLUJECI/AAAAAAAAISw/QORqThafxkw/s320/student.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><br /><br />to the firm hand of a graduate...<br /><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-KsW3wYgpYSg/VYN7yoxRZ_I/AAAAAAAAIS4/yev31WcRAeY/s1600/dad12.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="180" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-KsW3wYgpYSg/VYN7yoxRZ_I/AAAAAAAAIS4/yev31WcRAeY/s320/dad12.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><br /><br />to the confident use of his nickname and purple ink of his later years. He preferred purple felt-tip pens and was dismayed when local stationers and office supply stores ceased carrying them. One of my last Christmas gifts to him was a big box of purple Papermate felt-tips. I was sure he'd have years more of using them.<br /><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-Qlddof2O46c/VYN8BfYZLcI/AAAAAAAAITA/2cJ9rhe0THM/s1600/dad19.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="180" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-Qlddof2O46c/VYN8BfYZLcI/AAAAAAAAITA/2cJ9rhe0THM/s320/dad19.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><br />It was also pretty cool to Google the house in &nbsp;New Hyde Park where he lived as an older child; it's still standing. Not sure exactly where he lived as a little kid--I know it was an apartment building in Queens, that his dad and mom (German immigrants) were the caretakers of the building, and that due to their position they had access to the basement, which made Dad a king among his peers as they ran up and down alleys fighting endless world wars.<br /><br />After cataloging everything from "Akin, J. E., <i>Finite Elements for Analysis and Design</i>" to "Watman, H., 'Assessment of the Unified Approach for Predicting the Hypersonic Characteristics of a High L/D Reentry Glider,'" I contacted the Boeing library, and fortunately they were interested in taking on most of the books; the old books were particularly welcome because historians and engineering students delved into them in their work. Plus there were my dad's own folders of writing and collected materials on the development of aircraft on which he worked.<br /><br />I hauled them all up to Boeing's restoration center on a gray March morning. We know Dad would be really glad to think of his books in the hands of another generation of engineers.<br /><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-7Qa3GkYKRvw/VYN9b0j-BBI/AAAAAAAAITM/pQJm2ySfqmU/s1600/museum%2Bof%2Bflight.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="225" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-7Qa3GkYKRvw/VYN9b0j-BBI/AAAAAAAAITM/pQJm2ySfqmU/s400/museum%2Bof%2Bflight.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><br />I also know Dad would be very amused and slightly appalled (if you can be such a thing) at my saving bits and pieces like scribbles on paper. He'd probably make some jokes about relics and Oliver Plunkett's head. I don't really know why I hang on to them other than that it's all I've got left of him other than photos and what he's instilled in us kids. I feel sometimes like a bird on a nest, tucking every precious scrap around me.<br /><br /><br /><br />&nbsp; &nbsp;&nbsp;</div>Christina Wilsdonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02472802098557216513noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3981659012070333472.post-78651684229012618112015-06-04T11:36:00.003-07:002015-06-04T11:36:50.060-07:00Does a Bear Sit in our 'Hood?<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on"><a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-PacIDEylK64/VXCYfyvcA4I/AAAAAAAAIPY/NDdACj4nKbo/s1600/black%2Bbear%2Bsitting.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="400" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-PacIDEylK64/VXCYfyvcA4I/AAAAAAAAIPY/NDdACj4nKbo/s400/black%2Bbear%2Bsitting.jpg" width="273" /></a>There is a bear prowling in our Cottage Lake neighborhood.<br /><br />A black bear.<br /><br />A <i>big </i>black bear.<br /><br />Well, actually, it's surely many black bears, but people tend to refer to it as The Bear. Much as Mount Rainier is simply called "The Mountain," and everybody knows you're talking about that one snowy peak among all the other many mountain peaks in the area.<br /><br />These pictures aren't mine (all but the last one are from the U.S. Fish &amp; Wildlife Service's photo archive), but the only time I saw The Bear was when he galloped past me while I was on a walk, about a block and a half from my house. Even if I had had a camera ready, I daresay I'd probably have frozen in fright and forgotten how to use it if the bear had hung around to pose for a picture.<br /><br />As it was, he ran past me so quickly I only had time to think "Big dog!" before (a) he was gone and (b) I realized, "That's no dog."<br /><br />Anyway, local police departments and wildlife offices are doing their Rite of Spring, which is to send out information about how to deal with bears, avoid bears, prevent attracting bears, and what to do if you actually encounter a bear.<br /><br />So I thought I'd post a humor piece I wrote on the topic a few years ago, and sent to a magazine and got a favorable reaction though not an acceptance. At least I hope it's humorous. I had fun writing it anyway. I hope you grin and bear it ;)<br /><br /><b><span style="font-size: large;">Beware the Bear</span></b><br /><br /><i>“Anyone who sees a bear in the city should call 911.” –The Seattle Times, p. B1, May 18, 2009.</i><br /><i><br /></i><i>"Here are tips should you come in close contact with a bear:&nbsp;</i><i>Stop, remain calm, and assess the situation...</i><i>If a bear walks toward you, identify yourself as a human by standing up, waving your hands above your head, and talking to the bear in a low voice. (Don’t use the word "bear" because a human-food-conditioned bear might associate “bear” with food . . . people feeding bears often say 'here bear.'" --Washington Department of Fish &amp; Wildlife, "Do's and Don'ts in Bear Country"</i><br /><br />As if there weren’t already enough to worry about. The economy. War. 401(K)s becoming 200.5(K)s. Sick pigs. Bunions. Jagged edges on cans opened with rotary can openers. Now this: urban bears.<br /><br />So. I may not be wise or deep. I may not be profound or insightful. But I am diligent. I am observant. I can keep my eyes open for bears. That I can do. I’m a good citizen. And I know that, no matter how cold my blood runs at the thought of meeting a bear in a dark alley, I must continue to go about my daily business. We all must. If we don’t, the bears win.<br /><br />(Note to self: Does city contain dark alleys? Have I ever been in one? Are dark alleys dark all day or are they lit at high noon?)<br /><br />Anyway, so far so good. No bear sightings yet. Then again, I haven’t yet left the house. Time will tell. I must gird my loins and step out boldly on daily rounds.<br /><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-6_lgxACiz7A/VXCYpYI8epI/AAAAAAAAIPg/_E1A3iKkRKA/s1600/black%2Bbear%2Byoung.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-6_lgxACiz7A/VXCYpYI8epI/AAAAAAAAIPg/_E1A3iKkRKA/s320/black%2Bbear%2Byoung.jpg" width="212" /></a></div>First stop: Starbucks. A quick glance reveals that there are no bears. No scat, no tracks. I check the coffee-condiments counter—the jar of honey is there, intact. A good sign. I breathe a sigh of relief and head for the counter. For a second, I consider joking with the barista about her being a “bear-ista” but decide that will just make me sound like a jerk—dozens of people may have already made the same joke, or—worse yet—she doesn’t know about the wayward mammal and will give me a patient, puzzled half-smile. So I simply order my usual, an iced double venti, 6 pumps vanilla, caramel sauce top and bottom, no ice, extra-whip mocha, with room. Decaf.<br /><br />Drink in hand, I settle into a comfy chair. Just as I take my first sip, I raise my eyes to find a child staring at me. “Mommy!” it cries. “Somebody’s sitting in my chair!”<br /><br />The child is summoned to a nearby table by its parents. It perches on its seat and slurps its drink. I turn my gaze back to my beverage, but because my senses are on high alert, I am still tuned in to this family—and so it is that I hear the father say, “My coffee is too cold.”<br /><br />The mother responds, “My coffee is too hot.”<br /><br />And the little one pipes up, “My cocoa is just right!”<br /><br />My God. Carefully, without any sudden moves, I look up and study the trio. Lots of brown hair. Father particularly shaggy. Suspicious. But they lack inch-long, daggerlike claws, and the female does not appear to weigh the 150 pounds typical of a black-bear sow.<br /><br />Still, I will not get between her and her young. My drink is in a to-go cup, so, ergo, I go.<br /><br />I set out on my usual round of morning errands: a quick stop at the market (shelves fully stocked with food, salad bar not ravaged), the post office (long wait at counter as staff is apparently hibernating, but nothing else), and finally the bank (where I consider making a “bear market” joke to the teller, but again, show restraint).<br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-UV767_pAeoM/VXCY03pepKI/AAAAAAAAIPo/ugb3SyjBHjo/s1600/black%2Bbear%2Bhead.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="254" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-UV767_pAeoM/VXCY03pepKI/AAAAAAAAIPo/ugb3SyjBHjo/s320/black%2Bbear%2Bhead.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><br />I touch down briefly at home to put my groceries away and change into running clothes. As I lace up my shoes, I dimly remember that running sets off a predator’s instinct to pursue. Is this true of bears? I scroll a list of do’s and don’ts for bear encounters in my mind. I recall the sensible first piece of advice: “Do everything you can to avoid an encounter with any bear.”<br /><br />Excellent. I’m doing well, then. My life thus far has been dedicated to avoiding bear encounters. I do not even read <i>Reader’s Digest</i>&nbsp;for fear of encountering a bear encounter in its pages. But now, with the bear at the door, so to speak, I must vigilantly maintain a Code Red level of awareness.<br /><br />I close my eyes and concentrate on visualizing the cautionary measures I have committed to memory: Don’t throw things at the bear. Avoid eye contact during initial phase of encounter. Don’t climb a tree to escape. Don’t use the word “bear” when talking to an approaching bear (bears that have eaten human food can link this word with “treat” because people who feed bears often say “here, bear!” Two words that, I suppose, are among their last.)<br /><br />Ah...there it is. Don’t run from the bear unless you know you can quickly reach a place of safety. Right. Much of my jogging will involve dashing through a park. Many trees, no bear-proof chambers. A walk, then. With pepper spray in hand instead of water bottle.<br /><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/--25OV6qS1cE/VXCZAHAcZJI/AAAAAAAAIPw/I7TaLJZknww/s1600/black%2Bbear%2Bbushes.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/--25OV6qS1cE/VXCZAHAcZJI/AAAAAAAAIPw/I7TaLJZknww/s400/black%2Bbear%2Bbushes.jpg" width="400" /></a></div>Nothing appears to be amiss as I stride down the sidewalk. True, I do spy several rather flat carcasses along the way: a squirrel here, an opossum there, even a raccoon. But no overturned logs, no torn-apart hollow trees, no “rejected bits of carrion or large prey, such as pieces of skin, often with head or feet attached,” as my Audubon field guide indicates would be the case if indeed a black bear were at large.<br /><br />(Note to self: Find out what preys upon squirrels, opossums, and raccoons in city.)<br /><br /><br />It isn’t until I’m a block from the park that it happens.<br /><br />I finally see it. Large as life and twice as ugly—<i>Ursus americanus</i> itself.<br /><br />The beast lumbers toward me, swinging its ungainly head, jaws dripping, baleful eyes glaring malevolently.<br /><br />I swore that I would be ready for this—forewarned is forearmed, and all that. Instead, I feel ice-cold panic flooding through me. I force myself to take a deep breath and call up the list again. As the instructions unspool once more, an eerie calm replaces the terror: I can handle this.<br /><br />Quickly, I identify myself as a human. I stand tall and wave my arms around. I talk to the bear in a low voice. “Hey, b—Ursus. I am a human. Repeat: I am a human.”<br /><br />But the damn thing keeps coming. It doesn’t even break stride.<br /><br />I move on to more desperate measures. I clap my hands. I stamp my feet. I yell at the bear and stare it straight in the eyes.<br /><br />It works. The dread creature stops. It growls. It says, “Hey, knock it off, what are you, an idiot?”<br /><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-kkEr9eftw2A/VXCZN2YogPI/AAAAAAAAIP4/ZKHjQK6kFFs/s1600/black%2Bbear%2Bstaring.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="266" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-kkEr9eftw2A/VXCZN2YogPI/AAAAAAAAIP4/ZKHjQK6kFFs/s400/black%2Bbear%2Bstaring.jpg" width="400" /></a></div>Only then do I notice that this bear is leashed and attached to a handler. I drop my arms to my sides and let the word “human” die on my lips. The handler is staring me straight in the eyes and is employing dominant body language. As there is no sure-fired place of safety nearby, I do not run away but merely walk briskly, my strides taking me into the leafy cool of the park.<br /><br />(Note to self: Could handler be walking a dancing bear? Surely dancing bears are outlawed in U.S. Must check.)<br /><br />Today, however, the park isn’t the balm to my soul that it usually is. Woods and bears, after all, are intrinsically linked. I ignore the erratically scampering children and their high-pitched squeals of delight (their parents really ought to warn them against such prey-like behavior) and focus on the trees, with particular attention to shadowy areas.<br /><br />Fortunately, no trunks are scarred with tooth marks and claw slashes, the classic signs of a bear marking its territory.<br /><br />It isn’t until I reach an open clearing that it happens. For real. This is not a chow-chow encounter.<br /><br />It’s a bear encounter.<br /><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-5shJeuC5vm4/VXCZVnJhxYI/AAAAAAAAIQA/lP7BIPzeBXk/s1600/black%2Bbear%2Bwalking.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="266" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-5shJeuC5vm4/VXCZVnJhxYI/AAAAAAAAIQA/lP7BIPzeBXk/s400/black%2Bbear%2Bwalking.jpg" width="400" /></a></div>And this time, it’s not just one bear. It’s two bears. Unleashed. No handlers in sight. What’s more, these are no black bears. These are grizzly bears—two 1,496-pound examples of bruin pulchritude in their prime.<br /><br />I know they are grizzlies. They have dished faces, not the straight muzzle of the black bear.<br /><br />There’s no time to wave my arms, no time to utter words of warning in a low voice. I think of the children, of how the bears will hug them and then devour them. I do as the newspaper has bid me to do. I whip out my cell and call 911.<br /><br />My screaming into the phone attracts many onlookers. The operator, meanwhile, seems confused by my repeated shouts of “<i>Ursus arctos!</i>” I lower my voice so the bears cannot hear me and utter, “Bears! Grizzly bears! Loose in the park!”<br /><br />At first, the blood pounding in my ears makes it hard for me to hear clearly, but slowly it dawns on me that I keep hearing one phrase again and again.<br /><br />“You are in the zoo,” says the operator. “You are in the zoo. The zoo. In the Northern Trail exhibit. They have grizzly bears there. Two of them.”<br /><br />“The zoo?” I whisper. I look up. The people around me take a few steps back. They look suspicious. I wave my arms over my head to assure them that I am human.<br /><br />I glance back at the bears. OK, now I see the fence. But they’ve done a clever job of hiding it from view. If I hadn’t made this mistake, somebody else would’ve, if they were watching out for the common good as I am.<br /><br />It seems like an apt time to head home. I take a wandering dirt trail through the woods so as to avoid the gaze of the curious. I keep my eyes peeled for tracks that, according to my field guide, “look as if made by a flat-footed man in moccasins” but with the big and &nbsp;little toes reversed and claw marks visible. Fortunately, I do not see any tracks that meet this description.<br /><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-y9dQ_Z_bhKM/VXCZzDonxyI/AAAAAAAAIQI/Sew3AMlfTbU/s1600/Black_bear_with_salmon.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="265" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-y9dQ_Z_bhKM/VXCZzDonxyI/AAAAAAAAIQI/Sew3AMlfTbU/s400/Black_bear_with_salmon.jpg" width="400" /></a></div>Once I am safely indoors, I feel relief settle upon me like a veil. (That is, after I have carefully checked in the closets and under the beds and have ascertained that my goldfish are still in their tank.) I crack open the back door just enough to determine that the sack of cat chow I leave out nightly for the local feral cat is still there. (I have never seen this elusive creature before, but it eats an entire bag of kibble every night and has even consumed entire haunches of venison; it must be the size of a cougar!)<br /><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span><br />I fire up the computer. My brushes with panic have unnerved me. Knowledge is power, so I will Google for more information about urban ursids to set my mind at ease. And while I’m at it, bear traps.<br /><br /><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-__c3OIYoSzA/VXCahrnvecI/AAAAAAAAIQU/Cle_y7Pnu4k/s1600/Black_bear_Yellowstone_NP_2008.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="512" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-__c3OIYoSzA/VXCahrnvecI/AAAAAAAAIQU/Cle_y7Pnu4k/s640/Black_bear_Yellowstone_NP_2008.jpg" width="640" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i>[photo by Jim Martin via Wikimedia Commons]</i></td></tr></tbody></table><br /></div>Christina Wilsdonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02472802098557216513noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3981659012070333472.post-73883255440724920862015-05-19T16:34:00.001-07:002015-05-20T10:37:16.040-07:00Soft Spring Evenings with "Apricot Sky" by Ruby Ferguson<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on"><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-P4Xq2eT6AlU/VVvHZHoPpsI/AAAAAAAAINo/E_hRvoF3Aj0/s1600/jill%2Bhas%2Btwo%2Bponies.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="400" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-P4Xq2eT6AlU/VVvHZHoPpsI/AAAAAAAAINo/E_hRvoF3Aj0/s400/jill%2Bhas%2Btwo%2Bponies.jpg" width="251" /></a>In the early 1970s my uncle delivered a stack of books to me. He'd picked them up on a trip to Ireland and assumed, quite rightly, that his horse-crazy niece would love a series of books about a girl her age who acquires first one pony, then a second, and tumbles into a series of misadventures with them.<br /><br />These books were the "Jill" books by Ruby Ferguson, a series of nine titles starring the sharp, funny, sometimes klutzy, and often impetuous Jill Crew. She begins the series as an 11-year-old and ends as a 17-year-old, pony-mad from start to finish.<br /><br />Sadly, there were only the nine, and my equally horse-besotted friend M. and I read the paperbacks over and over and went around talking like Jill, saying "frightfully" and "smashing" rather a lot, until the pages became soft as tissue and the spines scored with folds.<br /><br />So, since there weren't any more Jill book to be had, about a decade ago I thought I'd have a go at reading some of the books Ferguson wrote for an adult audience. (Ferguson, by the way, was born Ruby Constance Ashby in Yorkshire in 1899. Between 1926 and 1934, she published 7 mystery novels under the name R. C. Ashby. Her 13 adult novels were published between 1937 and 1967; the "Jill" books fall in the middle of that span, as does a children's book entitled <i>A Paintbox for Pauline</i>. More biographical information can be found <a href="http://www.janebadgerbooks.co.uk/rubyferguson/rfbio1.html">here</a>.)<br /><br /><table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; margin-left: 1em; text-align: right;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/--DtcABPrze4/VVvHh2sELRI/AAAAAAAAINw/lKAYa0BRUpY/s1600/ruby%2Bferguson.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/--DtcABPrze4/VVvHh2sELRI/AAAAAAAAINw/lKAYa0BRUpY/s320/ruby%2Bferguson.jpg" width="303" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://www.persephonebooks.co.uk/ruby-ferguson/">Ruby Ferguson</a></td></tr></tbody></table>Unfortunately, it isn't easy to find these books, at least not in a Pacific Northwest library system, which is pretty far removed from Yorkshire. At one point the Seattle Public Library had two of her titles circulating (or not circulating actually, which would explain why they were ultimately weeded from the collection). The King County system had just one title: <i>Apricot Sky</i>, published in 1952.<br /><br /><i>Apricot Sky</i> is picked out by Ferguson fans as the best one to track down, the other romances being fairly gloomy and the mystery novels being just OK. Author <a href="http://www.janebadgerbooks.co.uk/rubyferguson/rfbio1.html">Hilary Clare</a>&nbsp;describes this book as "a glorious romp through the summer of a West Highland family and contains some children who might be straight out of the Jill saga." And she's totally right.<br /><br />The story unfolds in post-World War II Scotland. There are references to some brothers lost in the war and to rationing, but there's generally an air of "things are looking up," no doubt because the heroine, Cleo, has just arrived home after spending three years in the United States and because her younger sister is about to be married--to the younger brother of the next-door laird, Neil. Whom Cleo has pined after for years. Neil, however, is very Darcy-like and barely seems to notice her existence.<br /><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-hvz9BJ2EF-8/VVvH_1IniDI/AAAAAAAAIN4/qFWSHg_QkDU/s1600/apricot%2Bsky.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="400" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-hvz9BJ2EF-8/VVvH_1IniDI/AAAAAAAAIN4/qFWSHg_QkDU/s400/apricot%2Bsky.jpg" width="293" /></a></div>Cleo's hapless attempts to engage in conversation while writhing inwardly at her blunders alternate with the escapades of her niece and nephews, Primrose, Gavin, and Archie, who are wonderfully messy, rambunctious, and realistic kids who long to spend the summer potting about in boats rather than preparing for a wedding and entertaining their sordid, stuck-up older cousins, Cecil and Elinore.<br /><br /><i>Apricot Sky</i> is an affectionate comedy of manners, with humorous touches that remind me not only of the beloved "Jill" books but also such works as Shirley Jackson's stories about parenting (<i>Life Among the Savages</i> and <i>Raising Demons</i>) and Betty MacDonald's stories about finding a job in Seattle and spending time in a TB sanitarium (<i>Anybody Can Do Anything</i> and <i>The Plague and I</i>).<br /><br />Ferguson described moors, fishing villages, and lovely seascapes, but didn't neglect to leave out the little things that intrude into the most heavenly moments, such as ill-fitting shoes and sore feet, leaky &nbsp;jam jars, and the embarrassment of saying stupid and obvious things when you're desperately trying to seem lighthearted and carefree in conversation with the object of your crush.<br /><br />A <i>New York Times</i> review sums up the book thus: "What happens during the long, lazy summer of <i>Apricot Sky</i>&nbsp;is not of great consequence....What counts are the gently satiric pictures of life in the highlands and the fresh, light wind of wit and charm that ripples the pages of this book."<br /><br />Here are a few of my favorite bits and pieces from the story.<br /><br /><i>Scene: the garden. Characters: Cleo's mother, who's been ambushed by the arrogant, pretentious poppycock of a novelist who lives next door and has asked her to tell him, as a woman, what his Sister Agnes character in his latest work might do next. She hasn't been listening to a word he's said, so is caught off guard and wildly suggests she break her vows, which makes the novelist cross, saying that would be out of character.</i><br /><blockquote class="tr_bq">"There wouldn't be any novels at all if everybody did everything in keeping with their characters,' said his hostess stoutly. "and what's more, people love stories about nuns who break their vows. Look at <i>The Woman of Babylon</i>, by Joseph Hocking. It's the best novel I ever read."<br />&nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp;Mr. Trossach closed his eyes in pain and made a kind of whiffling sound in his throat.<br />&nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp;"Would you mind getting off that pansy?" said Mrs. MacAlvey. "It's rather a favourite one of mine. You know," she added triumphantly, "I've always thought I could write a novel myself if only I had time."</blockquote>(Any writers among you will be only too familiar with that last line.)<br /><br />The "Jill" books are filled with descriptions of food, because Jill and her friends are always starving and gobbling up cream teas and toast, so it was fun to discover that the inhabitants of <i>Apricot Sky</i> likewise enjoy good feasts:<br /><blockquote class="tr_bq">In spite of being so disturbed by love, Cleo was hungry. The roast chickens came in, preceded by a rapturous smell mingling the odours of bread sauce, rich gravey, and game chips....Everybody disposed of large platefuls.</blockquote>In their sailboat, the younger kids are barely away from shore before they're ready to tuck into their picnic:<br /><blockquote class="tr_bq">"I've never been so famished since that day we went to watch the shooting and forgot the sandwiches. I could eat a whole sheep. Let's start on the meat pie, and then work up to the apple charlotte and the chicken legs and the crackers and jam. Isn't this utter blissikins?"</blockquote>That's 15-year-old Primrose speaking, who's what they would've called a tomboy back then. She's full of great observations, such as &nbsp;her disgust at her aunt's decision to buy 25 yards of brocade for curtains in her new home:<br /><blockquote class="tr_bq">"What a waste!" said Primrose. "Fancy spending fifty galumptuous pounds on curtain material when you could use old sheets or anything and buy a cine-camera."</blockquote>Primrose is not one to mince words ("She really is the most binding clot," is how she describes cousin Elinore). And she's not about to be put down by her supercilious cousin, as evidenced by the mockery she incites among her siblings and their friend Gull at Elinore's expense:<br /><blockquote class="tr_bq">"I think Elinore is a beautiful name, and I have another. Felicity. Elinore Felicity. Don't you think that's musical? Have you got another name, Primrose?"<br />&nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp;"As a matter of fact, I have," said Primrose, dragging one leg out of the sand to scratch the ankle. "But I don't like it much. It's Hephzibah. Primrose &nbsp;Hephzibah."<br />&nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp;Archie gave a great snort of joy. "I've got another name, too," he volunteered. "It's Brontosaurus."<br />&nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp;"I think Neurasthenia is an awfully musical &nbsp;name for a girl," said Gavin. "Don't you, Prim?"<br />&nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp;"Oh yes, and so's Lethargy."<br />&nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp;"They only call me Gull for short," said Gull. "My real name is Seagull Nightingale Cuckoo Stork Tordoch."</blockquote>One scene mid-book reminds us that fussy food fetishes have always been in fashion: here Raine and Cleo are visiting their snobbish, controlling sister-in-law Trina and her two milquetoast children. Trina is ushering them out the door of her home at lunchtime without exactly shedding a tear at their departure.<br /><blockquote class="tr_bq">"I'd have asked you to come back and share ours, but I don't think you'd be satisfied with our simple food."<br />&nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp;"Oh, but we're not fussy--" began Cleo, and Trina interrupted, "When I said Simple Food, I was speaking advisedly. I don't suppose you've read Adelaide Amble MacPherson's book, but we all have the greatest faith in it. She says that to obtain the maximum of nourishment, food ought to be simplified to the nth degree; that is to say, colourless, formless and practically tasteless. We've been practising this for three weeks, and we're all wonderfully better for it. It seems to have made our lives quite different."<br />&nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp;"I'm sure it has," said Cleo.</blockquote>But I'll have to leave you with much better fare than that. Here's the younger kids, out on another sailing adventure, and Archie has just asked if they can have dinner before they do anything, because explorers always begin by eating.<br /><blockquote class="tr_bq">"I've never heard that," began Gavin, but Hamish was already unpacking the food....There were packs of sandwiches, ham, egg, and tomato, wrapped up in separate dozens in paper napkins with pink roses round the border. This novelty added considerably to the success of the feast, especially from the point of view of Elinore, who was faddy about finding bits of the boat bottom in her food. There were also fresh scones, buttered thickly, and chunks of fruity cake. There were tarts with apple inside and biscuits with chocolate on top. Finally everybody had a bottle of fizzy orangeade, the quart size, all to himself. So superior a lunch seemed fitting for such an occasion.</blockquote><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /></div>Christina Wilsdonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02472802098557216513noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3981659012070333472.post-90311170247321211732015-05-13T16:55:00.000-07:002015-05-14T07:52:52.702-07:00Getting to Know the Garden<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on"><a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-2fcUEHcjVRw/VVPk6P9rHxI/AAAAAAAAINE/1T3hzpoSlxw/s1600/20150409_152206.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="180" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-2fcUEHcjVRw/VVPk6P9rHxI/AAAAAAAAINE/1T3hzpoSlxw/s320/20150409_152206.jpg" width="320" /></a>Last year was a doozy of a year. Family illnesses and emergencies made it hard to find time to garden; falling off the front steps right at the juncture of spring and summer and breaking my arm effectively wiped out any gardening ambitions.<br /><br />So although I certainly enjoyed seeing the magnolia bloom, the azaleas and rhododendrons burst in fireworks of blossoms, and the dogwoods deck themselves out in spangles of starlike flowers, I didn't really get to know the garden on that intimate, shovels-in-the-dirt, gravel-in-the-knees way that I'd gotten acquainted with my Seattle garden of 18 years.<br /><br />It was blissful to be gifted with so many beautiful, warm, dry days this April and May--days that conveniently fell on weekends--to explore our new garden and get to know it better at, literally, a grassroots level. I especially liked discovering how beautiful the tracery of veins in fallen magnolia leaves are.<br /><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-Pfzn2nROe9A/VVPRNIuNwjI/AAAAAAAAIL0/t_eOhgKg6II/s1600/Magnolia%2Bleaf%2Bveins.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="426" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-Pfzn2nROe9A/VVPRNIuNwjI/AAAAAAAAIL0/t_eOhgKg6II/s640/Magnolia%2Bleaf%2Bveins.JPG" width="640" /></a></div><br />Things are popping up all over the place that we labor to identify (and to determine if it's OK to let them stay, lest we find ourselves with a horror on our hands like the <a href="http://www.piccalillipie.com/2011/07/mystery-plant.html">Himalayan Balsam</a> non-native highly invasive species that briefly lurked in our Seattle garden).<br /><br /><a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-1BCBiFVuy-w/VVPRYxrqRSI/AAAAAAAAIL8/X2JsbOMeOZQ/s1600/P1240368.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="266" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-1BCBiFVuy-w/VVPRYxrqRSI/AAAAAAAAIL8/X2JsbOMeOZQ/s400/P1240368.JPG" width="400" /></a>Earlier in the season, a plant came up near the drainage ditch out front that made me hold back the overeager scuffle hoe. There was something about the leaves that gave me pause, the way you might hesitate upon meeting someone who reminds you of somebody else.<br /><br />I think I've managed to identify it as a native wildflower, the large-leafed geum. Cultivated geums are among my favorite flowers, so that explains why this plant tugged at my heartstrings and prevented me from tugging at its roots.<br /><br />Apparently, the timing of this plant's growth of new leaves correlates with the birthing season of seals, so now every spring I can stand at the base of the driveway, check the drainage ditch, and say in tones of great profundity, "Somewhere, right now, a baby seal is being born."<br /><br />Up the slope from this wildflower is a super-sized bleeding heart, which I saw briefly last year but really noticed this spring, especially as the plum tree that once stood next to it fell down in a windstorm this past autumn.<br /><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-v3sVVrJ1wzM/VVPR_B3gSAI/AAAAAAAAIME/ZFQbFGuVKiQ/s1600/P1240365.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="426" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-v3sVVrJ1wzM/VVPR_B3gSAI/AAAAAAAAIME/ZFQbFGuVKiQ/s640/P1240365.JPG" width="640" /></a></div><br />Bleeding hearts are always lovely, but this particular plant is bewitching me because it seems to be producing a clutch of white flowers, too:<br /><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-etPZ439iOPI/VVPSP_288pI/AAAAAAAAIMM/JK6F_HHVjNE/s1600/P1240359.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="266" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-etPZ439iOPI/VVPSP_288pI/AAAAAAAAIMM/JK6F_HHVjNE/s400/P1240359.JPG" width="400" /></a></div><br />We also found a large patch of leaves that looked like those of columbine spreading across part of the front garden where little else grows in front of the shrubs. Now that they're flowering, they continue to look like columbines, and I think they're a variety called Clementine White.<br /><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-y-VMdXQzw-M/VVPhFhPbbBI/AAAAAAAAIMc/oB6cPSzZh6g/s1600/P1240403.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="266" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-y-VMdXQzw-M/VVPhFhPbbBI/AAAAAAAAIMc/oB6cPSzZh6g/s400/P1240403.JPG" width="400" /></a></div><br /><a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-zw5paB6NBYs/VVPiPir4OrI/AAAAAAAAIMk/xQ1Avxy2Me8/s1600/P1240395.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="400" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-zw5paB6NBYs/VVPiPir4OrI/AAAAAAAAIMk/xQ1Avxy2Me8/s400/P1240395.JPG" width="266" /></a>The previous occupants of our house hired landscapers to take care of the garden, and someone in the past had professionals plan it all, so that there are lots of pretty, healthy shrubs and small trees (for which I am grateful; my last garden had to be hacked out of a thicket of half-dead trees and blackberry bushes and overgrown shrubs, so it was nice to start off with good bones in this garden).<br /><br />They mainly covered open areas with layers of black bark, with the exception of one small area near the deck where someone planted a nice little garden of groundcovers and some daisies. I'm planning to slowly replace a lot of the bark with groundcovers elsewhere in the yard.<br /><br />One nice surprise is an avenue of ferns that the landscaping crews were no doubt told to remove every spring, because they weren't here when we moved in but are now growing vigorously in a strip of stones bordering the deck. I think they're Lady's Ferns.<br /><br />Ferns pop up all over the place, and I've added a bunch of ferns from the nursery (as part of the groundcover master plan). After taking a few books out of the library about ferns, I felt myself ready to go haring off in search of rare ferns and desirous of setting up a large upturned root section from a Douglas-fir in order to build a stumpery, the fern-garden setup that those crazy Victorians went mad for. Had to steel myself because It's Not Like I Don't Have Other Things I Must Be Doing. For now I'll just enjoy the built-in Douglas-fir stump sitting in the yard, and the huckleberry tree and ferns and moss growing on it.<br /><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-gMd5mAB2IXQ/VVPjw9r9CHI/AAAAAAAAIMw/_MZkz56PC5g/s1600/Stump%2Bwith%2Bhuckleberry%2Bin%2Byard.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="426" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-gMd5mAB2IXQ/VVPjw9r9CHI/AAAAAAAAIMw/_MZkz56PC5g/s640/Stump%2Bwith%2Bhuckleberry%2Bin%2Byard.JPG" width="640" /></a></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div><br /><br /><br /></div>Christina Wilsdonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02472802098557216513noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3981659012070333472.post-9810627849859261492015-04-28T09:43:00.004-07:002015-04-28T09:43:57.013-07:00Training Horses, Now and Then<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-jdKnVp4YPqA/VT-wNxvthWI/AAAAAAAAIJo/HVdroIxh4Mc/s1600/P1120410.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-jdKnVp4YPqA/VT-wNxvthWI/AAAAAAAAIJo/HVdroIxh4Mc/s1600/P1120410.JPG" height="400" width="266" /></a></div>Let me make it clear from the start that I am not talking about <i>me </i>training horses. Now, then, or ever. I am not a horse trainer, nor do I play one on TV. I just read a lot about horses, and watch the Resident Teen as she rides and works with horses, and admire the trainers who've worked with her and her horse.<br /><br />But, like most people, I can tell the difference between being mean and being kind. (I often think of the quotation in Melissa Holbrook Pierson's book <i>Dark Horses and Black Beauties</i> regarding lack of compassion: "Whenever people say 'We mustn't be sentimental,' you can take it they are about to do something cruel. And if they add 'We must be realistic,' they mean they are going to make money out of it.'" The cruelties inflicted on Tennessee Walking Horses come to mind.)<br /><br />There's no end, of course, to the sad stories streaming through news feeds every day about animals and people who'd benefit from some compassion, but what made me dwell on horse training were some old paperbacks I picked up at a thrift store recently.<br /><br />They are part of a series called "Professor Beery's Illustrated Course in Horse Training." A quick Googling on the topic doesn't provide much illumination, just a few websites that worship him as the greatest trainer ever, a real natural with horses, and other sites that reprint and sell his books.<br /><br />Although there are nods to not breaking a horse's spirit, to "caressing" the horse when it minds, and to past abuse that contributes to a particular horse's nasty temperament (and the sensible reminder that the horse must obey you--a horse is a lot bigger, after all, and can really do some damage if it doesn't respect you), "Professor" Beery's techniques are pretty jarring in their harshness, involving an awful lot of trussing up horses and yanking their feet out from under them and jerking on their heads.<br /><br />To wit:<br /><br />"To subdue a horse properly, he should be thrown on his side to convince him of your power." This involves a lot of ropes, foot straps, and knee pads (for the horse) as well as a lot of people, plus making a great deal of noise with a bunch of frightening objects while the horse lies helplessly on the ground.<br /><br /><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-wjkPMnJ4iC8/VT-wbanM3lI/AAAAAAAAIJw/s_y_ZRVukEU/s1600/beery%2B2%2B001.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-wjkPMnJ4iC8/VT-wbanM3lI/AAAAAAAAIJw/s_y_ZRVukEU/s1600/beery%2B2%2B001.jpg" height="468" width="640" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><b><i>Yeah, because this is how you build trust and respect in your equine partner. That guy who looks like an organ grinder is cranking a "horse fiddle"--basically a supersized version of an old-fashioned clacker or rattler used to make noise at festivals and holidays. "It makes a deafening noise," asserts Beery cheerfully.</i></b></td></tr></tbody></table><br />Teaching a horse to stand for the farrier involves strapping up his foot so it's tied below his belly, and you have to "punish him with the bridle" until he stands nicely.<br /><br />"The instant the halter is on, remove the lasso from the neck, so that you will not choke him any more than is absolutely necessary."<br /><br />"Work him hard while the ropes are on, compel &nbsp;him to fight, and fight hard, show him that you are master, and can handle him as you please."<br /><br />Got a biter? "Turn the horse loose in an enclosure...and enter the pen with a whip in your right hand and a revolver, loaded with blank cartridges, in the other. As the horse rushes toward you to bite, fire blank cartridges straight up in the air in front of his face. He will whirl and try to kick. As he whirls, hit him a hard stroke with the whip."<br /><br /><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-rqHfv-EPxjU/VT-yfKYlP4I/AAAAAAAAIKE/KG8QKdjCqzI/s1600/beery%2Bgun.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-rqHfv-EPxjU/VT-yfKYlP4I/AAAAAAAAIKE/KG8QKdjCqzI/s1600/beery%2Bgun.jpg" height="360" width="640" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i><b>Gosh, our horse liked to nip, but nobody suggested we try this method to curb the habit.</b></i></td></tr></tbody></table>Dealing with a horse who breaks straps and pulls on his halter? Just rig up a pulley around his middle and tie it to his halter and then to a post--reasonable enough.<br /><br />But then, force him to spring forward to ease up on the rope by rushing at him with pans or flinging papers in his face: "have a little limber-lashed whip handy and strike him five or six sharp taps with the lash across the nose...the sudden added punishment about the body and the fright and pain caused by the whip will most certainly bring him forward."<br /><br />Horse afraid of firecrackers? "Lay the horse on his side. Crack the whip all about him, and make all sorts of other racket. Take fire-crackers and fire them off all around him."<br /><br />Beery also offered to sell items such as the Beery Pulley Bridle and the Beery Four-in-one Controlling Bit (which can be adjusted for "very severe" action). There are also instructions for how to make a variety of bridles to subdue the horse, such as variations on war bridles...<br /><br /><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-Mk-H63H9_ew/VT-yzyWKAdI/AAAAAAAAIKM/bsoBpvOqGpI/s1600/beery%2Bbridle.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-Mk-H63H9_ew/VT-yzyWKAdI/AAAAAAAAIKM/bsoBpvOqGpI/s1600/beery%2Bbridle.jpg" height="258" width="320" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><b><i><span style="font-size: large;">OUCH.</span></i></b></td></tr></tbody></table>...which are prohibited&nbsp;by the American Quarter Horse Association at their shows under their "inhumane treatment rules" as being indicative of a "general course of dealing with horses which is unacceptable." &nbsp;Apparently these bridles can be useful for dealing with emergencies, according to various sources, <a href="http://www.thinklikeahorse.org/index-2.html">one of which</a> also warns that "It can be very harsh so I do not recommend it to anyone that is too rough or relies on force too much." Which would seem to rule out "Professor" Beery...<br /><br />Lest it seem that I still live in the elementary-school world of belief that horses are just big sweet Labrador Retrievers who will Forge a Bond with Your Soul (and only <i>your </i>soul) and am therefore too fuzzy-headed to have an opinion about horses, I will dragoon an actual horsewoman to provide Exhibit A, straight from the horse's mouth, so to speak:<br /><blockquote class="tr_bq">Throughout the ages, many people have chosen to ignore the advice of such classical riding masters as Xenophon, who wrote The Art of Horsemanship in approximately 400 BC. Xenophon advocated a kind and fair regime for the training of horses, but this seems to have been repeatedly forgotten or ignored throughout the centuries. Horrendous practices such as hobbling or physically restraining horses, who are terrified until there is no fight left in them, have arisen.<i>&nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; </i>&nbsp;Anne Wilson,<i> Top Horse Training&nbsp;</i><i>Methods Explored</i></blockquote>As for all that throwing a horse to the ground--it appears that some horsemen still bring horses to the ground, though it's now called "laying" them down, and I doubt it involves yanking their feet out from under them. An actual horse trainer (unlike moi) makes an interesting point about this process on <a href="http://goodhorsemanship.ca/laying-a-horse-down/">this website</a>, noting that the laid-down horse is enduring the tonic immobility (TI) of a downed prey animal:<br /><blockquote class="tr_bq">On the psychological side of things, creating TI, or utilizing training methods that don’t allow an animal the opportunity to ‘find the answer’ to relieve physical and mental pressure can create a psychological state known as learned helplessness....Animals who feel they have no control over aversive situations appear passive, demotivated, and depressed....Learned helplessness will trickle over from the situation where it was created, into other areas of the animal’s existence. Although there is no current scientific evidence, could this be what explains the ‘attitude change’ in many horses who undergo being laid down?</blockquote>I don't know, but it's great to know that horse people are talking about these things.<br /><br />Back to Beery. Interestingly, his pamphlets and methods aren't even all that original. He started publishing them in 1905. But they're all expounded in an earlier book published in 1887: <i>The Standard Horse Book</i> by circus proprieter and horse trainer Dennis Magner. (It's frequently reprinted but with a warning on the copyright page that "Of course, the reader will realize that many methods of breaking, training, and caring for a horse will have changed since this book was first written some time ago.")<br /><br /><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-pIssjgVc8fA/VT-zcUNKb_I/AAAAAAAAIKU/Op1yAvcHE9Y/s1600/magner%2Bhorse.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-pIssjgVc8fA/VT-zcUNKb_I/AAAAAAAAIKU/Op1yAvcHE9Y/s1600/magner%2Bhorse.jpg" height="238" width="400" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><b><i>Just another fun day at the Magner riding school.<br />This wouldn't make your horse distrust you. No, not at all.</i></b></td></tr></tbody></table>"[T]his was the first experience I had of men's kindness; it was all force," laments the feisty mare Ginger in explaining her training to the placid Black Beauty in Anna Sewell's famous book, published in 1877, when such methods were routinely used (although there were plenty of horse trainers who practiced the kindness and patience that Beauty's trainers did, too).<br /><br />It wasn't that long ago that throwing horses and otherwise subduing them were pretty standard techniques, and I imagine there are still many people who rely on similar shortcuts; the book <i>Horse Breaker </i>by Ed Bateman, Sr., which was published in 1947, relates how weaned colts and fillies were roped and "staked out" to learn to submit to a hackamore and rope around the nose and head while a cowhand "boogers" them into straining against the rope:<br /><blockquote class="tr_bq">This method is strictly western, and often criticized as too severe, but it works for men who make their living riding horses. They know as well as you do a colt on the stake line is a forlorn and desperate animal. Entirely alone for the first time in its life, scared to death...and falling to pieces with each scare, the little fellow has a bad time of it.</blockquote>Though there seems to be a bit more of a middle ground edging in, as he explains in the next section, in which the horse breaker hops aboard the colt for the first time:<br /><blockquote class="tr_bq">There are no rules and this is no contest. The colt must realize quickly that you are master, but you must not fight it. You are up there to get its respect and confidence, not to conquer it by breaking its heart and will....For the next few days, the horse breaker intensively cultivates that hoss as a friend. No spurts, no quirt, no bit, no unwary moves. Trust a man, little feller; if he's fit to work on a cow and horse ranch, he'll never hurt you.</blockquote>Bateman's book shows an appreciation for horses as individuals and horsemen as people of integrity who don't abuse them, but it still seems a pretty rough way for a horse to be indoctrinated. One caption about a filly who bolts and drags a handler notes that "Little Sister went to a severe 'schooling' immediately after, which she probably will never forget." Those quotation marks around "schooling"...makes one feel a little uneasy, wondering what's meant by that.<br /><br /><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-YQYTH7ymSx4/VT-0foBB3yI/AAAAAAAAIKc/TCSa5Bzswpk/s1600/bateman%2Bhorse.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-YQYTH7ymSx4/VT-0foBB3yI/AAAAAAAAIKc/TCSa5Bzswpk/s1600/bateman%2Bhorse.jpg" height="225" width="400" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">from <i>Horse Breaker</i> by Ed Bateman Sr. (Carl K. Wilson Co., 1947)</td></tr></tbody></table>At any rate, it's balm to the soul to look at listings of horse-training books at the library and see what words abound nowadays in the titles and subtitles:<i> understanding, gentle, humane, trust, confidence, obedient, safe, leadership, respect, friendship, reliable, accepting, compassionate communication, harmony, "Respect, Patience, and Partnership, No Fear of People or Things, No Fear of Restriction or Restraint."&nbsp;</i><br /><br />I do have a favorite bit in one of Beery's books, however. It's an item that involves only firmness and not harshness, in which the author encourages the rider to urge the horse toward an object that frightens him; while you do this, you are to "speak out commandingly" the following phrase: "Take care, look out, sir! Walk right up to it!"<br /><br />I am going to try saying that in ringing tones the next time I'm hefted upon some unfortunate horse. That wouldn't embarrass the Resident Teen a bit if she were out riding with me.<br /><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-BytkFfFOfSE/VT-14UlVDyI/AAAAAAAAIKo/vPPKq47Ja-I/s1600/P1170466.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-BytkFfFOfSE/VT-14UlVDyI/AAAAAAAAIKo/vPPKq47Ja-I/s1600/P1170466.JPG" height="425" width="640" /></a></div><br /><blockquote class="tr_bq"><i>For what the horse does under compulsion … is done without understanding; and there is no beauty in it either, any more than if one should whip and spur a dancer.--Xenophon</i></blockquote></div>Christina Wilsdonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02472802098557216513noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3981659012070333472.post-16889718748208887722015-04-13T13:08:00.002-07:002015-04-13T13:09:56.057-07:00Spot the Beetle<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on"><a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-lmsInIyu7xY/VSwhNEhyCNI/AAAAAAAAIHU/U7Q1H2hcu3s/s1600/cucumber%2Bbeetle.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-lmsInIyu7xY/VSwhNEhyCNI/AAAAAAAAIHU/U7Q1H2hcu3s/s1600/cucumber%2Bbeetle.jpg" height="400" width="319" /></a>A few weeks ago, as we continued to explore areas in our new community, we stopped by a little wayside between Duvall and Carnation called <a href="http://www.kingcounty.gov/environment/waterandland/natural-lands/ecological/chinook-bend.aspx">Chinook Bend Natural Area</a>.<br /><br />We'd popped in there last summer and attempted to go for a walk but were felled by the heat within five minutes, as the path took us through a treeless swale and, after 25 years of living in the Puget Sound region, we were no longer capable of surviving outside a narrow temperature range.<br /><br />This time, however, it was a gentle, early-spring day with a light breeze, so we made it to the river, over a pile of slash, into a woodland, and back again.<br /><br />Along the way we encountered this marvelous beetle (at left).<br /><br />Most western gardeners would probably not call this a marvelous beetle. They would call it many rude names. Because it is a western spotted cucumber beetle, <i>Diabrotica undecimpunctata.&nbsp;</i><br /><br />No sources have much good to say about this beetle. Most of the sources are ones dealing with pest management, and they point out that this insect transmits crop diseases and damages a wide variety of garden plants and crops, including corn, soy, squash, and cucumbers.<br /><br />Even the Audubon field guide says (of its eastern cousin) that it's "one of the most destructive beetles" and "damages foliage, flowers, and pollen of cucumbers, melons, corn, potatoes, and peanuts." Its offspring are called "corn rootworms" because they feed on the roots of crops.<br /><br />I would surely pluck this beetle off my vegetables if I found it in our garden, but this beetle was minding its own business and trundling around in its native habitat, ignorant of the fact that it was named after a vegetable (actually, a fruit) that itself is native to southeast Asia.<br /><br />The plant it's on appears to be a Sitka willow, <i>Salix sitchensis</i>. Part of what made this insect so marvelous to us was its cartoonish pattern of big black spots on a bright green background, but also the way that ridiculous coloration caused it to blend in with the catkins, which appeared black-spotted thanks to the dark bracts at the base of its small flowers.<br /><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-mZQ0wHBB8AA/VSwhrovMybI/AAAAAAAAIHc/xtbvMnxj8kg/s1600/cucumber%2Bbeetle%2B3.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-mZQ0wHBB8AA/VSwhrovMybI/AAAAAAAAIHc/xtbvMnxj8kg/s1600/cucumber%2Bbeetle%2B3.jpg" height="426" width="640" /></a></div><br />What the beetle's nefarious plans were after we left, I cannot say, though from what I could dig up on its life history, it'll include laying up to 300 eggs over the next few weeks, if it's a female. For now, it was busy doing just what the field guide Insects of the Pacific Northwest said it usually does: "feeding on light-colored flowers." Apparently it's fond of dandelions.<br /><br />It was a lot easier to find admiring commentary on the willow, which was used by native peoples for a variety of purposes--making ropes, gray pigment for dyeing mountain-goat wool, and even absorbent material for diapers. It'd be interesting to know what Native Americans thought of the beetle in those times, as I assume it wasn't a major agricultural pest back in the day.<br /><br />I couldn't figure out the meaning of the first half of its scientific name, but the&nbsp;<i>undecimpunctata </i>part means "11-spotted." A curious name for a 12-spotted beetle, except that two of the spots come together to form one big spot when it closes its wing covers. Tricky beast.<br /><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-CuWi6jNcjQA/VSwh_5nGOuI/AAAAAAAAIHs/O6DypdOhCM4/s1600/Pictures%2B93%2Bdownloaded%2BMar%2B9%2B044.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-CuWi6jNcjQA/VSwh_5nGOuI/AAAAAAAAIHs/O6DypdOhCM4/s1600/Pictures%2B93%2Bdownloaded%2BMar%2B9%2B044.JPG" height="427" width="640" /></a></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div><br /><div><br /></div></div>Christina Wilsdonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02472802098557216513noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3981659012070333472.post-88509997039795237342015-03-27T08:48:00.000-07:002015-03-27T08:48:26.142-07:00Plum-Blossom Snowfall, Then Spring<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">While friends and relatives back east were being pummeled by snow, we were enduring a deluge of plum-blossom petals drifting to the ground. And that was before Spring officially arrived last weekend. It was supposed to pour both days, but Saturday proved to be bright and warm, and so we were able to get out in the garden and start prepping it for the growing season.<br /><br /><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-7faaaNFO77U/VRV6I9tPk6I/AAAAAAAAIEw/8m179acvCTo/s1600/P1240044.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-7faaaNFO77U/VRV6I9tPk6I/AAAAAAAAIEw/8m179acvCTo/s1600/P1240044.JPG" height="266" width="400" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i>Barrels filled with soil in the sunny side yard.</i></td></tr></tbody></table>A robin has staked out our front yard as his territory and sings from atop a blue spruce.<br /><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-OQNUH6sEgOg/VRV6bGdy7fI/AAAAAAAAIE4/o7855w3C2mo/s1600/robin%2Bin%2Btree.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-OQNUH6sEgOg/VRV6bGdy7fI/AAAAAAAAIE4/o7855w3C2mo/s1600/robin%2Bin%2Btree.jpg" height="400" width="247" /></a></div><br />An Anna's hummingbird continues to rule the back yard and spends a lot of time and energy chasing an interloper away from the feeder and sitting on a branch chirping his indignation.<br /><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-_wvAHNCrrQQ/VRV6iStXrDI/AAAAAAAAIFA/duNRTjkGMTE/s1600/hummingbird%2B1.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-_wvAHNCrrQQ/VRV6iStXrDI/AAAAAAAAIFA/duNRTjkGMTE/s1600/hummingbird%2B1.jpg" height="272" width="400" /></a></div><br />Meanwhile, the female hummingbird--whom the male chased from the feeder most of the winter--has forgiven her suitor his loutish ways and has a nest secreted away somewhere in the garden. He has gallantly decided to let her sip from the feeder.<br /><br />Here she is enjoying some time away from tending to her eggs, looking rather like a tired mom nursing a latte in a Starbucks while someone else minds her children at home for a few minutes.<br /><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-LIxN4O3XH88/VRV6rhDW4gI/AAAAAAAAIFI/2tjDzGx9XPw/s1600/hummingbird%2B3.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-LIxN4O3XH88/VRV6rhDW4gI/AAAAAAAAIFI/2tjDzGx9XPw/s1600/hummingbird%2B3.jpg" height="315" width="400" /></a></div><br />At night we can hear the spring peepers singing, a barred owl hooting, and coyotes yipping and howling. The morning brings a dawn chorus of robins, wrens, and sparrows with the flicker providing the drum section. I've always liked early-morning sunlight, especially on days when I don't actually have to be up early and can linger to savor it with a cup of coffee.<br /><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-pGwZV7xLuSU/VRV69ut6hrI/AAAAAAAAIFY/NwFCXXRphpw/s1600/P1240002.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-pGwZV7xLuSU/VRV69ut6hrI/AAAAAAAAIFY/NwFCXXRphpw/s1600/P1240002.JPG" height="426" width="640" /></a></div><br /></div>Christina Wilsdonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02472802098557216513noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3981659012070333472.post-77594537844531961662015-03-20T09:34:00.001-07:002015-03-23T09:55:13.709-07:00Odd Things People Say to Writers<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on"><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; margin-left: 1em; text-align: right;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><img src="http://thegraphicsfairy.com/wp-content/uploads/2012/11/TypewriterGirl-Vintage-GraphicsFairy2.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;" /></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Look! Even pre-Internet, cats. <span style="font-size: xx-small;"><a href="http://thegraphicsfairy.com/old-photo-cute-french-girl-with-typewriter/">(Image courtesy Graphics Fairy)</a></span>.</td></tr></tbody></table>A few weeks ago a <a href="http://electricliterature.com/if-strangers-talked-to-everybody-like-they-talk-to-writers/#.VKwBbHi4JwY.mailto">humor piece</a> about what it'd be like if strangers spoke to everybody the way they often speak to writers was making the rounds, eliciting chuckles, sighs, and rueful self-recognition along the way.<br /><br />It made me think of some of the odd things people have said to me over the years as I've pursued my freelance-writing career.<br /><br />I present them here with no irritation, astonishment, bitterness, or desire to have my soul soothed, because by now I just think they're kind of funny. Everybody in every walk of life hears people say stuff that takes them aback (how many times a day does a doctor hear "but I read on the Internet that..."?).<br /><br /><i><b>Scene: college cafeteria, freshman year.</b></i><br /><b>Me: </b>Oh, hello [unnamed arrogant author who happily lay around on college lawn with nubile college roommate discussing her, um, writing]! Er, I was just wondering if I got into your writing class?<br /><b>Author:</b> Hmm? Oh. No, I'm sorry. You have a lot of enthusiasm, but little talent.<br /><b><br /></b><i><b>Scene: college, different professor's office, later in freshman year.</b></i><br /><b>Me:</b> Um, hello [frightening professor who went on a tear one day raging against people who described things as being "a dull black"]...you wrote on my paper that you wanted me to come in and see you?<br /><b>Professor:</b> Hmm? Let me see. [Takes paper. Reads uplifting comment that says "Please come and see me. You have unusual talent."]<br /><b>Me:</b> [Silent. Scared. Hopeful.]<br /><b>Professor: </b>[Hands paper back abruptly. Fixes me with glare over pince-nez. Sneers.] Soooooo. You've come to hear me sing your praises, then?<br /><b>Me: </b>Oh! No! No, not at all.<br /><b>Professor:</b> [Rambles on a really long time about something.]<br /><br /><i><b>Scene: Living room, right after opening parcel that contains new book I wrote as work-for-hire about the history of everyday objects.</b></i><br /><b>Houseguest </b>(angry young woman fresh out of college): This your new book?<br /><b>Me:</b> Yes.<br /><b>Houseguest:</b> It's all just schilling for corporations!! Listen to this! [Reads text aloud in mocking tone.]<br /><b>Me:</b> Well, sometimes companies did invent and make stuff that we buy, like Band-Aids and crayons...<br /><b>Houseguest:</b> [goes on to scorch teakettle left on untended stove and to borrow clothing without returning it.]<br /><br /><b><i>Scene: Same living room, years later. Family from down the street whom we thought would be New Friends asks to see some of my books.</i></b><br /><b>Me:</b> Here's some animal books I did for young kids.<br /><b>Guy from Other Family:</b> "All About Baboons"???<br /><b>Me:</b> Yeah, I know, the title's funny! Can't help it, "baboon" is just a funny word.<br /><b>Guy from Other Family:</b> [Reads aloud from book while wife and children snicker and sputter.]<br /><b>Me:</b> [Silent in clear knowledge that these people will not be New Friends.]<br /><br /><b><i>Scene: kid's soccer game.</i></b><br /><b>Soccer dad:</b> So what's your next book about?<br /><b>Me:</b> Birds.<br /><b>Soccer dad:</b> Oh. So you just go and steal other people's research and write it all down.<br /><br /><i><b>Scene: UW classroom, science class for elementary-school teachers.</b></i><br /><b>Fellow student: </b>So you write books?<br /><b>Me:</b> Yeah.<br /><b>Fellow student:</b> So what are you doing in this class? You're here to steal all our ideas, aren't you?<br /><b>Me: </b>[Silent, thinking, What is up with this stealing stuff? And, hey, don't flatter yourself, lady.]<br /><br /><b><i>Scene: elementary school cafeteria</i>.</b><br /><b>Other mom:</b> So what's your next book about?<br /><b>Me:</b> Birds.<br /><b>Other mom: </b>Oh. How boring!<br /><br /><b><i>Scene: A friend's baby shower.</i></b><br /><b>Guest: </b>I hear you're a writer!<br /><b>Me: </b>Um, yeah. I work as a freelance writer.<br /><b>Guest:</b> I've written a book! It's a memoir! Let me go get it.<br /><b>Me:</b> [worriedly waiting as fellow guest runs out of house to her home to fetch manuscript.]<br /><b>Guest:</b> [dumps manuscript in lap.] &nbsp;Here! Maybe you can just read some of it for now.<br /><b>Me:</b> [vast alarm as manuscript reveals itself to be long, rambling diary filled with complaints about the woman's husband and personal details.]<br /><br /><i><b>Scene: Multiple occasions, throughout life, whenever people winkle it out of you that you're a writer of books for children. </b>(Note, however, that the vast majority of people say pleasant things. Sometimes I think people are stinkers, but at heart I think most people mean well, so I actually don't mind the common comment "Would I have read anything you've written?")</i><br /><br />"I've always wanted to write a children's book, but I don't have time."<br /><br />"Really? Do you think that you'll ever write a real book?"<br /><br />"Well, it's not like you need a college education to do what you do."<br /><br />"That must be easy."<br /><br />"Well, that's nice. I have to work for a living."<br /><br />"So you just write stuff with short words?"<br /><br />"Did you ever have a real job?"<br /><br /><img src="http://thegraphicsfairy.com/wp-content/uploads/2014/08/Children-with-Books-Picture-GraphicsFairy.jpg" height="243" width="640" /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /></div>Christina Wilsdonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02472802098557216513noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3981659012070333472.post-24256238423749571432015-02-04T16:34:00.001-08:002015-02-06T08:07:48.121-08:00The Weird Vintage Pop-up Books in the Basement<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on"><table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-o8xJLTvzBEc/VNK2AscfuiI/AAAAAAAAH_8/NSAoVz9cmZ8/s1600/P1230802.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-o8xJLTvzBEc/VNK2AscfuiI/AAAAAAAAH_8/NSAoVz9cmZ8/s1600/P1230802.JPG" height="320" width="212" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i>The creepy pop-up clown.</i></td></tr></tbody></table>When I was a kid, I was always amazed to read stories in which the child protagonists felt fortunate to own a book.<br /><br />I loved to read, so it wasn't that I thought a book was a strange item to cherish. It was just that books seemed like something everybody had, like air, or spoons.<br /><br />Books were indeed plentiful and relatively inexpensive by the time the 1960s had rolled around (for a typical middle-class family, that is, such as mine).<br /><br />My childhood home was awash in Little Golden Books, Big Little Books, and "I Can Read It All By Myself" Beginner Books. School order forms for paperback books routinely trailed me home, and books regularly appeared wrapped up for birthdays and Christmas.<br /><br />There were also the somewhat mysterious books that had come down through the ages to reside alongside our colorful books on the shelves. At least, they seemed to me as if they came from antiquity--they dated back to my mother's childhood, a time that seemed as distant to me as Jane Austen's heyday. (I believed her when she said, after being badgered for hours by five-year-old me to reveal her age, that she was 100 years old.)<br /><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-kuLdX9arCZ4/VNK2dJDy_BI/AAAAAAAAIAE/vIzaqDzVK_k/s1600/P1230818.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-kuLdX9arCZ4/VNK2dJDy_BI/AAAAAAAAIAE/vIzaqDzVK_k/s1600/P1230818.JPG" height="266" width="400" /></a></div>Among those books were four battered cardboard books filled with clever pop-ups and some vaguely unsettling illustrations.<br /><br />I didn't like the stories very much, but I did enjoy opening the books to the pages that contained the pop-ups.<br /><br />My mom always spoke reverently of the books, noting that they were very old and very valuable.<br /><br />She wasn't far off the mark--they <i>would </i>have been valuable, if they weren't in terrible condition. Though they'd come by that condition honestly; they'd been read to pieces by my mom and her brother when they were kids.<br /><br />My uncle had also colored in most of the pictures with paints. He filled them in very neatly and carefully, but I don't think they've done much to increase the books' value.<br /><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-4sqi6MowfkM/VNK2sd-IeHI/AAAAAAAAIAM/OmxiwWe73wI/s1600/P1230812.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-4sqi6MowfkM/VNK2sd-IeHI/AAAAAAAAIAM/OmxiwWe73wI/s1600/P1230812.JPG" height="213" width="320" /></a></div>Their value wasn't further enhanced when one of my siblings, discomfited by some of the distorted, exaggerated features of various characters, went through the books and cut off the heads of many of the pop-up people and animals.<br /><br />In researching the books, I learned they were part of a British book series called Bookano Books (which made sense family-history-wise, because they'd been sent from Ireland by my great-grandmother to my uncle in the 1930s).<br /><br /><a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-D9RKecrugnk/VNK3HsUSirI/AAAAAAAAIAc/zBNg7RtNNc0/s1600/P1230799.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-D9RKecrugnk/VNK3HsUSirI/AAAAAAAAIAc/zBNg7RtNNc0/s1600/P1230799.JPG" height="200" width="133" /></a>Their creator, a publishing-industry executive named S. Louis Giraud, teamed up with a paper engineer named Theodore Brown to create pop-up books that featured "mechanical" moving parts. The name "Bookano" was a blend of the words "book" and "Meccano," the name of a popular European building-toy kit. The team produced 16 or 17 books between 1929 and 1949 (sources vary on the number).<br /><br />Giraud geared the books to sell to a wide audience by using very thick, cheap paper, inexpensive printing techniques, and low-cost bindings (which is obvious to collectors of the falling-apart books) so that the books could be priced low. Oddly, it's the colorful pop-ups in each book that have best stood the test of time.<br /><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-9jirFF3OftY/VNK3WmnWIbI/AAAAAAAAIAk/2YL0CESuzcQ/s1600/P1230811.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-9jirFF3OftY/VNK3WmnWIbI/AAAAAAAAIAk/2YL0CESuzcQ/s1600/P1230811.JPG" height="426" width="640" /></a></div><br />Bookano Books was also a cottage industry. Cutting out and constructing the pop-ups was a job hired out to women working from home. The materials would be delivered to them and picked up when finished. The pop-ups' claim to fame was that they could be viewed from all angles.<br /><br />That was a big part of their appeal, and I can personally attest to that appeal because I spent a lot of time getting down on eye level with the books to peer into some of the scenes. I remember being particularly fascinated by this one, with characters gathered around a table, because you could see them from the front and the back, unlike a flat illustration in a book.<br /><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-mQczC8akNMo/VNK3o4zH7-I/AAAAAAAAIAs/HD7cVucfu3E/s1600/P1230828.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-mQczC8akNMo/VNK3o4zH7-I/AAAAAAAAIAs/HD7cVucfu3E/s1600/P1230828.JPG" height="426" width="640" /></a></div><br />I don't know why I thought this was magical--I certainly didn't regard my three-dimensional toys in this way. I suppose there was just something about the 2-D managing to be 3-D that was inherently amazing, like View-Master slides. Or like getting one of those postcards with a plastic corrugated front that turned the picture into a 3-D image. (I spent a few hours of my youth trying to peel the plastic off one of those cards so as to enter the world of Mowgli and Baloo the Bear on a Disney postcard. I never succeeded.)<br /><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-chL2GIulGUY/VNK3zpjLbgI/AAAAAAAAIA0/T9mqWEMCMvs/s1600/P1230829.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-chL2GIulGUY/VNK3zpjLbgI/AAAAAAAAIA0/T9mqWEMCMvs/s1600/P1230829.JPG" height="426" width="640" /></a></div><br />The regular illustrations in the books were, as mentioned previously, just kind of weird. I mean, jeepers. Check out this one. The first of many scary ringmasters in children's books. And clowns.<br /><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-P63_o2cKhVw/VNK4dsaCeyI/AAAAAAAAIBE/KmvSIymAKDs/s1600/P1230808.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-P63_o2cKhVw/VNK4dsaCeyI/AAAAAAAAIBE/KmvSIymAKDs/s1600/P1230808.JPG" height="640" width="426" /></a></div><br /><br />The comical stories were illustrated in a style similar to that used in the early Disney cartoons, with exaggerated features and rubbery limbs, lots of big teeth and giant nostrils. The serious fairy tales' illustrations were peopled by stiffer, more remote characters. The writing varied from formal and wordy to overwhelmed-by-cupcakes cheerful.<br /><br />There were stories the likes of which you'd probably not find in the children's section today:<br /><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-6XEQbe77Hs8/VNK4qQ08AjI/AAAAAAAAIBM/bw7-4cgntqg/s1600/P1230820.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-6XEQbe77Hs8/VNK4qQ08AjI/AAAAAAAAIBM/bw7-4cgntqg/s1600/P1230820.JPG" height="266" width="400" /></a></div><br />And I don't think I've ever run across the words "eunuch" and "female slaves" in any other children's books outside of these ones.<br /><br />But the books' endpapers often delighted with more enchanting images:<br /><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-sditkviIKIk/VNK5ksM0rnI/AAAAAAAAIBs/xNdfmwX2E0c/s1600/P1230806.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-sditkviIKIk/VNK5ksM0rnI/AAAAAAAAIBs/xNdfmwX2E0c/s1600/P1230806.JPG" height="640" width="426" /></a></div><br /><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-UsMkc3v4y1A/VNK5aVgsZgI/AAAAAAAAIBY/udFtvLsuKjY/s1600/P1230819.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-UsMkc3v4y1A/VNK5aVgsZgI/AAAAAAAAIBY/udFtvLsuKjY/s1600/P1230819.JPG" height="266" width="400" /></a></div><br />The pop-ups really could be astonishing, such as this one of a Red Admiral butterfly and an orchid:<br /><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-E_aLa55kfJA/VNK5aZ2SZ4I/AAAAAAAAIBg/i0t4r8JybGc/s1600/P1230824.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-E_aLa55kfJA/VNK5aZ2SZ4I/AAAAAAAAIBg/i0t4r8JybGc/s1600/P1230824.JPG" height="426" width="640" /></a></div><br />Though I don't think I'll ever forgive Bookano for giving me nightmares about clowns.<br /><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-MxwOLrE8Rm8/VNK6Zj86XoI/AAAAAAAAIB8/H4ub-Kiib9w/s1600/P1230800.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-MxwOLrE8Rm8/VNK6Zj86XoI/AAAAAAAAIB8/H4ub-Kiib9w/s1600/P1230800.JPG" height="400" width="310" /></a></div><br /></div>Christina Wilsdonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02472802098557216513noreply@blogger.com2